TO  ARMS! 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS 

I 


TO  ARMS! 

(LA  VEILLEE  DBS  ARMES) 

AN  IMPRESSION  OF  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRANCE 


AUTHORIZED  TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 

MARCELLE  TINAYRE 


BY 


LUCY  H.  HUMPHREY 

WITH  A  PREFACE  BY 

JOHN  H.  FINLEY 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68l    FIFTH   AVENUE 


Copyright,  1918, 
BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


Fir*  printing - January,  1918 

Second  printing January,  1918 


firinted  In  the  United  States  of  Hmerfea 


DEDICATION 

TO 

CHARLES  AND  MARIE-LOUISE 
LE  VERRIER 

MY  friends,  I  offer  you  this  book,  a  mirror 
where  everyday  and  heroic  aspects  are  re- 
flected, of  a  Paris  we  shall  never  see  again.  Dur- 
ing the  days  preceding  the  mobilization,  we  have 
watched  together  the  shadow  of  the  war  climbing 
the  pacific  sky,  and  blacker,  hour  by  hour,  extend 
over  our  land.  With  our  dearest  friends,  to-day 
widely  scattered,  we  have  known  the  agony,  reli- 
gious emotion,  inward  exaltation,  the  will  to  sac- 
rifice and  the  sorrow  of  parting,  in  those  unfor- 
getable  moments  when  our  spirits  were  only  part 
of  the  universal  spirit,  when  our  personal  affec- 
tions melted  into  a  universal  feeling,  when  the 
weakest  among  us  felt  beating  in  his  mortal  heart 
the  eternal  heart  of  France. 

Then,  we  had  the  sense  of  kinship  which  bound 
us  to  the  people  of  our  race;  laborers,  bourgeois, 
artists,  scholars,  the  greatest  as  well  as  the 
humblest.  The  obscure, — elbowed  only  recently, 
with  indifference,  in  an  egoistic  security,  seemed 

v 

2183299 


to  us,  in  the  face  of  the  common  peril,  what  they 
are  in  reality,  our  brothers  and  sisters,  our  own 
people.  There  were  no  more  social  distinctions 
nor  false  convenances:  by  a  word,  by  a  look,  by 
thoughtful  silence,  we  all  fraternized. 

The  most  ordinary  street,  with  those  who  lived 
in  it  and  those  who  walked  through  it,  became  a 
marvellous  school  of  grace  and  courage.  I  have 
always  loved  this  street  in  Paris,  but  I  have  never 
really  seen  it  and  understood  it  until  these  days; 
and  it  is  in  a  way  under  the  dictation  of  the  pass- 
ers-by that  I  have  written  its  history — a  history 
which  occupied  forty-eight  hours:  from  July  3ist 
to  August  2nd,  1914. 

None  of  my  books  have  required  less  imagina- 
tion or  admitted  of  less  literary  artifice.  I  offer 
it  to  you,  my  friends,  because  you  will  be  better 
able  than  anyone  to  recognise  in  it  the  true  color 
and  the  exact  meaning  I  have  tried  to  give.  It 
is  for  you,  whose  home  made  me  welcome  and 
happy;  but  it  belongs  also  to  those  whom  your 
fraternal  love  joins  in  the  same  memory,  to  those 
who  kept  vigil  with  you,  with  me,  on  "the  eve 
of  the  war"  and  who  are  now  at  their  distant 
posts:  Philippe  Millet  in  the  North  and  Noel 
Pinelli  at  the  Dardanelles. 

Let  us  take  their  beloved  names,  associated 
with  yours,  to  be  a  happy  omen  for  the  destiny 
of  this  little  book,  which  bears  our  prayers  and 
our  hopes  that  we  may  be  celebrating  their  re- 
turn before  long  the  day  after  victory. 

vi 


PREFACE 

It  was  said  by  a  correspondent  in  Paris  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war  that  in  France  they  no  longer 
remembered  the  days  of  the  week  or  of  the  month 
but  reckoned  time  from  the  first  day  of  mobilisa- 
tion. I  saw  the  awesome  and  ominous  affiche 
("the  placard  which,  with  its  crossed  flags  and 
black  letters,  became  a  sign-post  at  the  crossroads 
of  two  epochs")  which  established  the  new  calen- 
dar of  days  that  have  run  into  months,  of  months 
that  have  run  into  years  and  of  years  that  will  run 
into  centuries  of  a  new  life  for  the  valorous  France 
which  has  been  revealed  to  the  world  since  that 
day  of  mobilisation;  and  having  myself  walked 
through  northern  France  in  those  first  historic 
days,  and  having  seen  the  men  on  their  way  to 
the  places  of  rendezvous  and  the  women  in  the 
fields  gathering  the  first  harvests,  I  am  able  to 
know  with  what  quiet  courage  and  intrepid  heart 
France  began  the  new  and  undreamed  epoch  in  her 
life. 

vii 


viii  Preface 

And  how  dearly  she  must  ever  cherish  the  mem- 
ories of  those  hours  of  brave,  unquestioning  re- 
sponse on  the  part  of  the  men  and  of  as  brave, 
uncomplaining  relinquishment  on  the  part  of  the 
women.  It  was,  technically,  a  passing  from  a 
peace  footing  to  a  war  footing;  but  it  was  spir- 
itually the  sudden  forgetting  of  self  in  the  love 
of  a  nation-mother  and  in  the  defence  of  the  lib- 
erties sweet  to  mankind. 

In  this  little  book  one  will  find  in  the  visuali- 
sation of  the  typical  incidents  of  those  hours 
(when  the  rounds  of  "accustomed  rites"  in  home 
and  street  and  shop  seemed  to  make  any  break 
with  the  past  impossible)  the  spirit  of  those  now 
memorable  days — days  which  we  of  America 
bring  into  our  own  calendar,  now  that  the  sun  is 
shining  on  the  bayonets  of  our  own  brothers  and 
lovers  in  France  not  far  from  where  it  shone  on 
those  of  the  men  in  sky-blue  who  lie  many  of  them 
out  in  the  valleys  of  the  Marne  and  the  Meurthe, 
of  the  Meuse  and  the  Somme,  beloved  of  the  skies 
but  proudly  held  by  the  soil  of  France. 

I  had  been  in  France  not  a  week  before  this  un- 


Preface  ix 

anticipated  mobilisation,  in  the  midst  of  the  trial 
"which  concealed  France  from  strangers,  specta- 
tors also"  and  which  had  for  the  French  "ob- 
scured Europe."  But  when  I  returned  in  this  next 
fateful  week  the  real  France  could  not  be  con- 
cealed, for  her  people  stood  all  unconscious  of 
stranger  or  spectator,  holding  "close  together, 
heart  to  heart,  hand  to  hand,  in  silence  turning 
their  faces  in  the  same  direction."  And  one  may 
safely  quote  and  apply  to  all  France  the  statement 
within  that  there  was  "no  brutality  in  the  ardour 
burning  in  their  blood."  I  remember  particularly, 
though  not  as  exceptional,  the  Frenchman  with 
whom  I  journeyed  from  London  to  Folkstone  and 
then  to  Boulogne  as  one  of  those  first  nights.  He 
had  closed  his  little  shop,  left  his  all,  to  join  the 
colors  somewhere  out  in  the  north  of  France,  pla- 
cidly, unboastfully,  fearlessly  determined,  yet  hop- 
ing that  it  "would  not  come  to  bayonets,"  the  bru- 
tal bayonets. 

As  one  passes  from  the  early  chapters  of  this 
book,  with  their  petty,  homely  incidents  and  their 
simple  dialogue,  at  times  quarrelsome  and  not  the 


x  Preface 

most  agreeable  to  puritanical  ears, — passes  from 
these  to  the  later  chapters,  sees  all  France  moved 
by  tenderness,  and  brought  suddenly,  but  not  by 
any  mechanistic  compulsion,  into  one  great  fam- 
ily, sees  "selfishness  melted  in  the  pure  flame  of 
universal  sacrifice,"  one  can  hardly  regret,  despite 
the  bloody  cost  and  the  tragic  folly  of  war,  that 
France  was  called  to  this  Veillee  des  Armes  in  a 
cause  that  exalts  its  every  defender.  If  there  are 
tears  in  her  "resigned  eyes"  they  are  "shining  with 
light." 

JOHN  FINLEY. 


TO  ARMS! 


TO  ARMS! 


IT  is  the  3 1st  of  July  in  Paris.  A  heavy  morn- 
ing, sunny  but  threatening  a  storm. 
The  street,  situated  in  a  district  of  the  left 
bank,  recalls  lithographs  made  under  Louis-Phil- 
ippe. Quite  short,  extending  above  the  gardens 
of  an  expropriated  convent,  it  leads  from  a  quiet 
circular  Place,  to  a  large  populous  avenue.  Near 
the  Place  are  small  grey  or  brown  houses,  pa- 
vilions with  railings  and  little  gardens  and  a  long, 
low  wall,  disfigured  with  advertisements,  which 
passes  the  bell- tower  of  a  chapel  and  the  heavy 
green  masses  of  old  chestnut  trees.  The  narrow 
sidewalks,  the  wide  pavement,  the  little  shops, 
this  square  with  its  three  trees  and  its  benches,  is 
the  Paris  of  1840,  the  Paris  of  Balzac  and  of 
Murger.  The  wine-shop  displaying  the  sign,  "To 


2  To  Arms! 

the  Shell" — souvenir  of  the  siege — has  replaced 
one  of  the  public  houses  where  Rodolphe  and 
Mimi  danced.  On  the  other  hand,  near  the  ave- 
nue, the  street  is  dignified  by  five  new  houses 
higher  than  the  others,  and  dazzlingly  white  in 
the  light.  They  are  the  advance  guard  of  new 
Paris:  proclaiming  their  aggressive  modernity 
they  dominate  the  pavilions  and  the  gardens 
which  from  year  to  year  are  disappearing. 

Tiny  fragment  of  the  great  city,  the  little  street 
is  self-existent.  It  has  its  own  physiognomy  and 
special  character.  The  Parisians  of  L'Etoile  or 
of  Pare  Monceau  ignore  it.  If  they  should  come 
to  know  it,  without  doubt  they  would  despise  it. 
However,  it  is  part  of  Paris,  by  a  juster  claim 
than  those  splendid  highways,  because  it  is  inhab- 
ited by  bourgeois  Parisians,  who,  from  father 
to  son,  are  faithful  to  their  district,  if  not 
to  their  apartments,  and  it  is  not  frequented  by 
strangers.  Artisans,  men  of  independent  means, 
small  officials,  tradesmen,  they  retain  the  habits 
and  prejudices  of  their  caste.  Here,  as  in  the 
country,  life  is  narrow,  economical  and  petty. 


To  Arms!  3 

Neighbors  know  each  other  at  least  by  name. 
The  carpenter  and  the  locksmith  pride  themselves 
on  the  perfection  of  their  work  in  wood  and  iron. 
They  have  their  professional  honor.  They  are 
of  the  race  of  artisans.  A  sort  of  popular  elite 
that  does  not  frequent  low  taverns — in  touch  with 
the  poor  and  intelligent  class  of  young  artists, 
of  students,  and  developing  unconsciously  by  the 
contact.  The  charming,  well-dressed  girls  seem 
like  ladies  compared  with  their  mothers  in  loose 
jackets.  Yes,  it  is  certainly  Paris,  although  not 
visited  by  tourists,  nor  suspected  by  the  moral- 
ists of  the  outside  world.  Beyond,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  little  street  are  the  swarming  dis- 
tricts, the  museums,  the  schools,  century-old 
monuments,  the  theatres  and  amusement  halls, 
the  splendid  parks,  the  suburbs,  bristling  with 
factories.  The  little  street  realises  all  this  im- 
pressive life,  existing  around  its  humility.  It 
participates  modestly;  it  receives  the  current  that 
comes  from  the  centre  by  the  neighboring  ave- 
nue ;  it  shakes  with  the  passing  of  trams  and  auto- 
buses, and  the  deep  arteries  of  the  underground 


4  To  Arms! 

railway  vibrate  in  its  calcareous  soil.  Modern 
activity  is  encroaching  upon  it,  but  something  of 
the  past  dwells  in  it,  a  quiet  and  pleasant  calm, 
an  air  of  good  fellowship  and  of  naivete. 

This  morning  is  like  all  other  mornings  and  the 
little  street  has  its  usual  aspect.  On  one  side  the 
sun  warms  the  downy  mists  that  soon  become 
ragged  and  melt  away,  and  on  the  other,  a  soft 
ray  touches  the  chalky  whiteness  of  the  facades 
of  the  tall  houses.  The  doves  that  live  in  the  bell- 
tower  gently  coo,  while  quantities  of  sparrows 
twitter  among  the  thick  leaves  of  the  chestnut 
trees.  The  masons  take  a  drop  at  the  wine-mer- 
chant's; Monsieur  Gouge,  the  grocer,  opens  the 
blinds  of  his  shop.  The  creamery  is  open,  also 
the  newsstand  and  Madame  Anselme's  stationery 
store.  A  porter  goes  by.  Janitors  throw  streams 
of  water  broadcast  on  the  pavement  and  an- 
nounce, one  to  another,  that  the  day  will  be  hot 
and  that  there  is  a  storm  in  the  air. 

Some  employees  and  workmen,  who  hurry  to- 
wards the  subway  station,  stop  a  minute  to  look 


To  Arms!  5 

at  the  posters  displayed  on  the  fences.  There  are 
the  old  ones,  left  from  the  elections,  which  have 
been  disintegrating  since  the  month  of  May.  It 
is  possible  to  distinguish  words  in  large  letters, 
phrases  still  readable  .  .  .  "militarist  reaction 
.  .  .  electoral  reform  .  .  .  bourgeois  parties  .  .  . 
income  tax  .  .  .  monarchical  traditions  .  .  .  three 
years'  law  .  .  .  two  years'  law  .  .  .  substitute  sol- 
diers .  .  .  robber  .  .  .  bigot  .  .  .  unpatriotic  .  .  . 
tool  of  the  Lodges."  The  passers-by  cast  an  ab- 
sentminded  glance  on  the  field  of  battle  of  political 
parties,  on  this  debris  of  rhetoric,  which  the  sun 
and  showers  are  slowly  destroying.  These  are 
the  thoughts  of  yesterday — already  so  old  that 
they  die  and  decompose. 

A  new  poster,  that  a  hostile  hand  has  more 
than  half  torn  away,  announces  a  Meeting  of 
Protestation  against  the  War.  Two  men,  a  work- 
er and  a  bourgeois,  read  it,  looking  at  each  other 
with  a  kind  of  silent  defiance  and  then  go  on, 
each  to  his  own  work. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  the 
attractive  shop  "Vert  d'eau"  of  the  florist  is 


6  To  Arms! 

opened.  A  blonde  woman,  in  a  violet  house- 
dress,  peeps  out,  as  if  she  were  waiting  for  some 
one.  Madame  Anselme,  the  stationer,  busy  ar- 
ranging the  illustrated  magazines,  watches  the 
movements  of  the  aesthetic  shopkeeper  and  shrugs 
her  shoulders  with  scorn. 

It  is  a  morning  like  all  other  mornings.  In  the 
rooms  of  the  houses,  each  human  group,  couple  or 
family,  accomplishes  its  accustomed  rites.  Every- 
where the  fire  is  lighted,  the  water  runs,  the  cur- 
tains are  raised,  the  light  streams  in,  the  cradle 
creaks  and  rocks  and  the  woman  smiles  to  the 
mirror.  Everywhere,  the  peaceful  security,  the 
chain  of  thoughts  and  acts  and  the  rhythm  of 
life  are  renewed,  joining  yesterday  to  to-morrow 
in  so  regular  a  way  that  it  all  seems  unbreakable. 


II 

"T  TAVE   you   change    for   fifty   francs,   Ma- 
ll dame?" 

"For  three  newspapers  at  one  sou?  I  would 
rather  give  you  credit." 

"Here  then  are  three  sous." 

"Ah!"  responds  Madame  Anselme,  smiling. 
"Exactly  the  sum  .  .  ." 

The  chance  customer  apologises: 

"It  has  been  difficult  since  yesterday,  to  get 
this  wretched  change !  There  is  nothing  but  gold 
which  is  very  scarce.  One  hundred  sou  pieces 
have  disappeared.  .  .  .  But  why?" 

"It  is  the  fault  of  the  government,"  replies 
Madame  Anselme  positively.  "They  should  have 
foreseen  it.  But  it  is  said  that  the  money  will 
reappear.  Don't  be  afraid." 

"Meanwhile,  on  the  boulevard  yesterday,  the 
cafes  refused  notes  of  one  hundred  francs.  Yes, 
Madame,  with  one  hundred  francs  in  one's 
pocket,  it  was  impossible  to  dine!  .  .  ," 

7 


8  To  Arms! 

Madame  Anselme,  large,  blonde,  showy,  in  the 
full  development  of  forty,  does  not  lose  her 
usual  serenity.  She  slightly  shrugs  her  beautiful 
shoulders. 

"Yes,  but  why  do  you  suppose4?  Because  the 
newspapers  excite  the  public.  Then  the  people 
rush  to  the  banks  to  withdraw  their  savings  and 
to  the  grocers  to  buy  provisions.  It  is  all  ar- 
ranged and  there  are  speculators  who  profit  by 
it  ...  like  this  Monsieur  Gouge  opposite,  who 
has  raised  the  price  of  tapioca.  And  you,  my 
little  lady,  what  is  it  that  you  wish?  Change  for 
one  hundred  francs'?  I  haven't  it." 

A  stenographer,  twenty  years  old,  pale  and 
frizzed  under  a  little  hat  wreathed  with  tiny 
green  apples,  replies  straightforwardly, 

"One  hundred  francs'?  Where  could  I  get 
them?  Who  has  one  hundred  francs  this  3ist 
of  the  month  before  pay  day?  I  shall  have  a 
beautiful  bank-note  this  evening,  but  at  seven  in 
the  morning  I  have  only  35  sous.  Give  me  the 
Mode  Parisienne.  I  can  pay  for  that." 

"The  edition  at  two  sous,  without  a  pattern?'* 


To  Arms!  9 

"Oh!  I  want  the  pattern." 

"Very  well,  it  is  three  sous." 

The  stenographer  takes  the  journal  and  before 
going,  looks  at  the  illustrated  magazines  too 
costly  for  her  purse,  which  are  the  greatest  orna- 
ment of  the  stock.  The  colored  covers  represent 
ladies  with  long,  thin  figures,  less  clothed  than 
disguised,  according  to  the  Russo-Persian  fashion 
of  the  year  1914.  The  faces  of  these  persons  are 
formed  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  making  an  oval 
— two  black  spots  for  the  eyes,  a  round  rosy 
dab  for  the  mouth — and  they  have  such  small 
noses  that  they  appear  to  have  none  at  all.  As 
for  theii  bodies,  they  are  like  dancing  serpents 
and  they  bend,  stomach  forward,  chest  hollowed, 
for  an  eternal  tango.  The  egg-plant  and  the  to- 
mato, the  canary  and  English  turf  add  their 
stronger  colors  to  the  waving  scarfs  which  float 
on  the  violet,  green  or  blue  locks  of  the  ladies. 
Parisiennes  of  music-hall  and  of  cosmopolitan 
palaces,  they  give  to  a  simple  stranger  an  incor- 
rect idea  of  true  Parisiennes.  The  stenographer, 
Madame  Anselme.  and  all  the  readers  of  maga- 


10  To  Arms! 

zines  who  are  born  between  Montrouge  and  the 
Batignolles,  understand  themselves  in  regard  to 
this  matter.  .  .  .  They  admire  the  eccentric  pic- 
tures as  a  fantasie  of  artists  and  dressmakers,  but 
they  are  not  deceived  by  them. 

Under  the  magazines  are  some  pieces  of  music, 
maxixes  and  tangos,  crazes  of  the  past  winter, 
and  Viennese  waltzes,  remarkable  for  the  stupid- 
ity of  the  words.  Further  down  are  bargain  vol- 
umes, where  the  ridiculous  and  sublime  are  close 
neighbors.  Rocambole  and  Les  Miserable!)  Les 
Nuits  du  Boulevard  and  Manon  Lescaut,  detec- 
tive novels  and  the  great  classics.  In  the  same 
way,  the  coarse  little  comic  journals  are  found 
among  numbers  of  La  Vie  Parisienne,  Le  Rire 
and  the  Cri  de  Paris.  Easy  sentimentality,  rough 
soldier  songs,  lyrics,  supreme  delicacy  of  irony  or 
emotion,  heroism  and  frivolity,  pamphlet  and  ro- 
mance, the  whole  soul  of  Paris,  with  its  beauty 
and  its  blemishes,  appears  in  miniature  in  this 
stationer's  window  on  the  outskirts  of  town. 

"VKumanite!  .  .  ." 

"Le  Matin  .      ." 


To  Arms!  n 

"Le  Journal  .  .  ." 

"La  Guerre  Sociale.  .  .  .  Have  you  the 
change1?" 

"For  twenty  sous'?" 

"For  five  francs." 

"There!" 

Clients  take  the  paper  they  wish  from  the  pile 
and  go,  one  by  one,  struggling  with  the  double 
sheets  that  startle  them.  And,  although  Madame 
Anselme  cannot  see  their  faces,  she  knows  from 
their  slower,  heavy  gait  that  a  weight  has  fallen 
upon  them. 

Others  stop,  so  anxious  to  read  that  they  forget 
to  pay  and  hold  the  sou  in  their  hand.  Then 
they  seem  to  rouse  themselves,  throw  the  sou  on 
the  tray  and  go  in  turn,  in  silence.  .  .  . 

An  old  man  says  in  a  loud  voice: 

"My  God!  Suppose  that  we  should  see  it 
again !" 

He  goes  on,  with  the  thought  that  makes  him 
almost  reel  and  nearly  blinds  the  weary  eyes  of 
the  poor  devil.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  the  stenog- 
rapher, ten  steps  ahead  of  him,  enjoys  her  fashion 


12  To  Arms! 

paper.  The  children  play.  Two  cats  defy  each 
other,  spitting,  and  behind  the  fence  of  the  lum- 
ber-yard a  mason's  assistant  eggs  them  on.  ... 

"Kss!  Kss!  ...  the  kitty-cats!  .  .  .  There 
is  some  game  for  the  siege!" 

A  mason  protests: 

"For  what?  ...  For  what?  .  .  .  The  siege? 
We  are  not  in  '70  and  the  proletariat  is  there  to 
act.  Must  we  go  into  a  terrible  war  for  Servia, 
when  we  don't  even  know  where  it  is,  Servia? 
It  wouldn't  be  human.  It  wouldn't  be  civilised! 
It  is  certain  that  we  are  French  first  of  all,  and 
we  will  not  let  it  bother  us,  but  if  the  C.  G.  T.1 
holds  great  meetings  in  all  the  cities,  in  Paris,  in 
London,  in  Berlin  to  declare,  "The  working-man 
wishes  justice;  he  wants  them  to  explain  their 
difficulties  nicely  to  each  other,  instead  of  break- 
ing their  neighbor's  jaws.  Don't  you  think 
that  would  make  tne  governments  reflect?" 

The  chorus  of  comrades  responds  with  approv- 
ing grunts  or  ironic  laughter. 

1  Confederation   Generale  du  Travail. 


To  Arms!  13 

"Meetings!  they  never  did  anything  but  give 
pleasure  to  the  busy-bodies!" 

"It  is  for  the  German  Socialists  to  begin.  .  .  . 
Listen :  is  it  their  government  or  ours  that  wishes 
to  play  the  villain*?  It  is  certainly  not 
ours.  .  .  ." 

"Just  hear.  It  is  not  ended  yet.  They  will  not 
come  forward,  the  German  comrades.  .  .  ." 

"They  will  come  forward!" 

"They  will  not!" 

"Ask  Jaures.  .  .  ." 

"They  will  not  come  forward.  They  are  So- 
cialists, but  they  are  Bodies.  ...  I  have  known 
them,  the  Boches.  .  .  .  We  cannot  trust  them. 
.  .  .  They  are  the  worst  traitors.  My  good  man, 
they  would  inform  against  their  own  pals,  like 
the  monkeys!  .  .  .  All  spies  and  impostors!  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  more  to  be  done.  ...  As  for 
me,  I  have  ordered  my  army  shoes.  I  am  in  the 
engineering  corps." 

"I  am  in  the  artillery.  And  you,  Ernesse?" 

"Infantry  soldier  of  the  first  class.  ...  I  start 
on  the  fourth  day.  .  .  ." 


14  To  Arms! 

Madame  Anselme,  who  hears  this  dialogue, 
presses  her  lips  together  with  a  disapproving  air. 
She  doesn't  like  workmen  who  talk  politics  with 
the  phrases  of  the  public  meeting  and  words  that 
she  does  not  understand.  This  paper-seller  is  an 
ambitious  woman  who  dreams  of  raising  herself 
in  the  social  scale.  Her  trade  seems  much  nobler 
to  her  than  that  of  the  woman  who  sells  fruit, 
and  because  she  handles  books  and  journals,  she 
assumes  the  manners  and  pretensions  of  an  edu- 
cated person.  A  poor  widow,  Madame  Anselme 
has  practised  the  sharpest  economy  in  order  to 
procure  for  her  child  the  fine  education  she 
wanted  for  herself,  and,  born  of  the  people,  she 
has  hoped  that  her  son  might  become  a  bourgeois. 
Pierre  was  a  student  in  college;  he  entered  the 
highest  training  school  with  good  standing  and 
he  is  about  to  pass  the  examination  for  the  licen- 
tiate's degree.  At  the  beginning  of  October,  he 
will  be  a  professor  in  the  country.  Then,  Madame 
Anselme  will  sell  her  paper  business  and  grow 
old  near  her  son,  happy,  honored  and  comfort- 
able like  an  independent  lady. 


To  Arms!  15 

In  order  to  be  worthy  of  this  glorious  future, 
so  that  her  son  may  never  blush  on  her  account, 
Madame  Anselme  has  cultivated  herself;  she  has 
become  almost  distinguished  and  elegant,  with 
her  Parisian  capacity  for  assimilation.  Still  de- 
sirable and  attractive  as  ripe  fruit,  she  has  ignored 
the  temptations  that  disturb  the  autumn  of  beau- 
tiful women  and  has  not  listened  to  any  proposi- 
tion of  marriage.  She  is  passionately,  blindly  a 
mother  and  in  this  same  hour  when  a  strange  dis- 
quietude troubles  the  French  spirit,  Madame  An- 
selme is  indifferent  to  the  conflicts  of  Austria  and 
Servia,  incapable  of  realising  the  meaning  and 
the  consequences,  and  continues  hypnotised  by  the 
examination  for  the  licentiate's  degree  and  the 
probable  success  of  her  son.  Pierre  has  said  to 
her:  "Be  calm."  She  is  calm.  The  people 
rushing  to  Monsieur  Gouge  for  provisions  seem 
to  her  ridiculous  and  pitiable  and  she  blames  the 
government  that  cannot  prevent  the  money  panic. 

"Ah !  good  morning,  Marie !  You  want  change 
for  one  hundred  francs'?" 

"If   I   had   one   hundred   francs   at   a   time, 


16  To  Arms! 

Madame  Anselme,  it  would  be  on  my  savings 
book!  .  .  ." 

Marie  Pourat  is  from  Aveyron,  swarthy,  very 
thin,  as  sharp  in  business  as  she  is  in  regard  to 
money,  and  robust,  in  spite  of  her  slender  waist, 
her  arms  like  iron  wire  and  her  dark  little  face 
like  a  poor  insect.  She  was  a  servant  for  a  res- 
taurant keeper  of  the  Avenue  du  Maine  until  her 
twenty-eighth  year,  then,  having  amassed  a  capi- 
tal of  2000  francs,  she  married  one  of  her  com- 
patriots, Anthime  Pourat,  an  enormous  red-haired 
plumber,  who  treats  her  somewhat  roughly  and 
secretly  dreads  her.  They  occupy  two  rooms  on 
the  sixth  floor  in  a  neighboring  street.  Marie 
holds  the  purse,  brings  up  two  little  boys  with 
stern  solicitude  and  endures  with  good  grace  the 
presence  of  her  old  peasant  mother-in-law.  Her 
lordly  spouse  allows  her  to  govern  the  menage 
and  invests  the  money  which  she  saves  by  scrimp- 
ing like  the  ants.  Sometimes,  having  imbibed  a 
little  too  much,  he  shouts  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 

"I  am  the  master!     It  is  for  the  man  to  com- 


To  Arms!  17 

mand!  I  cannot  allow  people  to  say  that  the 
wife  wears  the  trousers  at  Anthime  Pourat's." 

Marie  does  not  contradict  him,  and  this  asser- 
tion of  authority,  wholly  theoretic,  satisfies  the 
affable  tyrant. 

Madame  Anselme  and  Marie  are  like  each 
other  in  their  intense  maternal  passion  and  in  the 
same  wish  to  advance  their  offspring  in  the  world. 
One  wants  to  be  the  mother  of  a  scholar ;  the  other, 
uprooted  from  her  own  country,  hopes  to  return 
to  her  native  Aveyron  and  to  cultivate  a  little 
place,  after  having  made  post  office  employees  or 
travelling  workmen  of  her  children,  men  of  sure 
pay  and  certain  support  for  old  age.  Both  have 
the  same  terror  of  risk  and  improvidence. 

"You  look  tired,  Marie.  It  is  the  heat.  .  .  . 
And  then,  you  do  too  much.  .  .  .  One  hour  with 
Monsieur  Gouge,  scrubbing  the  stairs.  That  is 
not  a  woman's  work! — the  menage  of  Madame 
Davesnes,  and  Madame  Moriceau's  and  the  er- 
rands and  washing  days." 

"If  one  has  chicks  one  must  earn  money,  you 
poor  thing !"  replies  Marie,  who  has  kept  the  col- 


1 8  To  Arms! 

loquialisms  of  her  province  and  also  a  slight  ac- 
cent. .  .  .  "Plumbing  doesn't  get  on  very  well. 
But  if  I  could  do  without  him,  I  should  not  go  to 
Monsieur  Gouge  any  more.  He  is  not  just,  that 
man.  .  .  .  Since  he  has  seen  the  fine  grocer  set- 
tled on  the  Avenue,  in  the  beautiful  shop  where 
they  sell  fish  and  game,  his  blood  is  turned  with 
jealousy.  .  .  .  Yesterday,  Madamoiselle  Cou- 
sance's  servant  wanted  to  buy  some  petrol :  'Not 
more  than  a  litre,'  he  said,  'and  I  shall  charge  an 
extra  sou.  If  you  are  not  satisfied,  go  to  your 
grand  place  .  .  .  stand  in  line.  .  .  .'  And  to 
me,  Madame,  who  am  in  his  employ,  he  sold 
four  packages  of  old  macaroni  at  the  price  of  the 
extra  superfine.  ..." 

"You  are  laying  in  provisions!" 

"Eh!  poor  woman,  almost  all  the  world  is  do- 
ing it!  ...  Suppose  we  should  begin  to  lack 
things.  .  .  ." 

"My  son  has  forbidden  me  to  buy  even  a  kilo 
of  sugar  in  advance.    He  says  that  Paris  is  sure  of 
plenty  of  provisions  and  that  the  lines  before  the 
stores  only  demoralize  the  people  and  excite  the 


To  Arms!  19 

merchants  who  want  to  grow  richer  and  richer. 
.  .  .  Here,  Marie,  take  your  papers.  .  .  .  Here 
is  your  package:  Le  Journal  and  Le  Figaro  for 
Madame  Davesnes,  Les  Annales  and  Le  Matin  for 
Mademoiselle  Cousance,  and  La  Libre  Parole  for 
Madame  Moriceau.  ..." 

"She  is  a  happy  person !  Her  son  arrived  yes- 
terday. .  .  ." 

"The  Abbe  Moriceau?' 

"Yes.  ...  A  short  blond,  quite  sweet  and  so 
polite!  The  kind  of  seminarist  that  seems  like  a 
young  lady  dressed  as  a  cure.  I  should  never  ven- 
ture to  confess  to  a  little  young  thing  like  that. 
.  .  .  What  will  my  Anthime  say  who  does  not 
love  a  priest !" 

"It  didn't  prevent  your  Anthime  from  being 
married  in  the  church*?" 

"Certainly  not!  One  does  what  is  necessary, 
one  is  not  a  dog.  ...  I  am  not  religious,  but  I 
respect  custom.  .  .  .  Moreover,  the  other  day, 
Monsieur  Lepoultre  was  perfectly  astonished  be- 
cause I  sent  my  Eugene  to  the  little  catechism 
class.  ...  I  said  to  him :  If  it  doesn't  do  him  any 


2O  To  Arms! 

good,  it  will  do  him  no  harm;  a  little  religion  is 
good  for  children.  .  .  .  Never  mind  whether  it 
lasts.  .  .  .  But  for  a  time  it  may  have  some  in- 
fluence. .  .  .  And  then  why  not?  We  are  not 
dogs!  .  .  ." 

"Here  are  the  papers  for  Monsieur  Lepoultre: 
L?  Action,  L'Humanite  and  for  the  sculptor,  La 
Guerre  Soctale." 

"Pourat  prefers  Le  Petit  Journal.  He  explains 
to  me  what  is  in  it,  because  I  read  the  supplement 
and  that  satisfies  me.  .  .  .  Ah!  the  poor  woman 
tormented  by  politicians  for  a  long  time,  my  An- 
thime!  .  .  .  'Much  better  if  it  were  ended! 
They  will  acquit  her !  They  will  not  acquit  her ! 
The  judges  are  bought!  The  husband  paid  by 
Germany !'  Ah !  Each  one  puts  in  his  oar.  Now 
it  is  another  song.  Pourat  called  in  my  ear  this 
morning:  'Hello,  Go  bring  my  thick  shoes  and 
my  flannel  belt!  .  .  .  Why*?  Because  I  say  so. 
...  In  case  that  there  may  be  war !'  .  .  ." 

The  terrible  word  falls  between  the  two  women 
like  a  shell  which  does  not  explode,  but  holds  con- 


To  Arms!  21 

cealed  powers  of  destruction.  Madame  Anselme 
turns  pale.  Then  she  shakes  her  head. 

"War!  My  son  doesn't  believe  in  it,  and  he  is 
perfectly  competent  to  understand  things,  he  who 
prophesied  all  the  results  of  the  elections!  .  .  . 
Three  years  ago,  in  19.11,  people  also  talked  of 
war,  and  see,  everything  is  settled.  .  .  ." 

"Monsieur  Davesnes  believes  it.  He  knows 
about  it  too,  as  he  was  lieutenant  before  being 
aeroplane  engineer/' 

"An  officer!  Naturally,  he  talks  of  drawing 
his  broadsword  as  you  do  of  waxing  the  stairs. 
See !  Monsieur  Lepoultre  v  is  going  out  at  this 
hour!" 

Monsieur  Lepoultre,  professor  of  political  econ- 
omy, well-known  Esperantist  and  pacifist,  is  a 
kind  and  tired  little  man.  He  has  a  wan  face,  un- 
kempt white  hair,  a  pleasant  smile  and  blue  eyes 
that  have  a  vacant  expression  because  of  myopia, 
behind  his  eye-glasses. 

"Give  me  the  papers,  Marie.  But  take  I' Action 
to  Madame  Lepoultre  who  is  dying  to  know  the 


22  To  Arms! 

news  .  .  .  especially  since  our  daughter  has  tele- 
graphed that  she  is  returning  to  France." 

Madame  Anselme,  who  reveres  the  professor, 
ventures  to  ask  timidly : 

"Madame  Delmotte  is  not  in  danger*?" 

"Not  at  all.  Her  husband  took  her  to  Switzer- 
land and  both  of  them  seemed  very  contented. 
.  .  .  My  son-in-law  has  decided  to  return,  which 
annoys  us  very  much,  because  we  expected  to  join 
them  next  week  with  our  two  boys.  .  .  .  No 
doubt  the  lies  that  are  spread  around  there  have 
bewildered  the  tourists." 

"The  lies!"  said  Madame  Anselme  reassured. 
.  .  .  "You  are  certain,  Monsieur,  that  they  are 
lies,  these  stories  that  we  find  in  the  papers?" 

"Not  entirely,  Madame.  We  must  distinguish. 
There  is  evidently  a  very  grave  crisis.  .  .  .  This 
declaration  of  war  that  Austria  made  day  before 
yesterday  on  Servia,  and  the  dissensions  that  have 
arisen  between  Russia  and  Germany.  .  .  ." 

"Oh !  Heavens !  You  think  that  we  shall  have 
war?" 

"Come  now,  Madame,  you  are  off  to  the  field 


To  Arms!  23 

of  battle.  I  believe  that  it  would  be  possible  to 
have  war  if  the  governments  were  not  frightened 
themselves  by  the  disturbance  they  are  causing. 
.  .  .  But  I  remain  optimistic,  in  spite  of  all,  and 
I  have  confidence  in  the  moral  force  of  opinion, 
in  the  wisdom  of  the  people  who,  throughout  the 
world,  I  assure  you  will  strongly  oppose  the 
troublemakers.  .  .  .  War!  The  conqueror,  would 
be  ruined  by  it,  as  well  as  the  conquered!  I  am 
persuaded  that  it  is  materially  impossible.  The 
Kaiser  and  his  chancellor  are  using  dishonest 
means.  ...  If  we  stand  our  ground,  you  will 
see,  at  the  last  moment  the  monster  will  sheathe 
his  big  sword.  Besides,  the  progressive  parties, 
the  German  Social  Democrats,  will  counterbal- 
ance the  military  caste.  .  .  .  According  to  the  in- 
formation that  I  had  last  evening,  the  hope  of  a 
peaceful  solution  is  not  lost.  .  .  .  And  that  is 
why  my  son-in-law  and  my  daughter  are  foolish 
to  return  to  Paris  the  3ist  of  July." 

"How  old  are  your  sons,  Monsieur  Lepoultre1?" 

"Twenty-two  years  and  nineteen  years.     The 

oldest  is  doing  his  military  service  as  cavalryman 


24  To  Arms! 

at  Luneville.  .  .  .  The  second  is  preparing  for 
the  Polytechnic  school.  .  .  .  And  you,  Madame, 
you  have  a  student  son*?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  He  is  about  to  pass  the  phi- 
losophy examination." 

"I  wish  him  success.  .  .  .  Come,  Madame, 
don't  sow  the  seeds  of  panic.  Inspire  confidence 
in  the  people  who  show  exaggerated  fear." 

"That  is  just  what  my  son  said.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye, and  a  thousand  pardons  for  having  kept  you, 
Monsieur." 

The  professor  departed,  walking  rapidly.  In 
the  stone-cutter's  yard  one  of  the  masons  hums  in 
a  tremulous  and  persuasive  voice: 

"U  Internationale 

Sera  le  genre  humain.  .  .  ." 

Meanwhile  a  gamin,  very  dirty  and  very  lively, 
arriving  from  no  one  knows  where,  like  a  sparrow 
on  the  pavement,  draws  with  a  piece  of  plaster, 
on  the  sidewalk,  the  helmeted  and  moustached 
profile  of  the  Emperor  William. 


Ill 

THE  building  number  59  is  what  Marie 
Pourat  calls  a  "rich  man's  house."  You 
must  realise  that  the  apartments,  provided  with 
baths  and  heating  arrangements,  are  rented  at  the 
enormous  price  of  from  fifteen  hundred  to  three 
thousand  francs.  An  architect,  charmed  with 
modernity,  has  designed  a  rectangular  fagade, 
without  carvings  of  any  sort,  where  the  glazed 
brick,  white,  conservatively  brightened  with  blue 
and  green  motives,  takes  the  place  of  free-stone. 
The  door  reminds  one  of  the  entrance  to  Egyptian 
palaces.  In  the  interior  of  the  vestibule  are  the 
same  enamelled  bricks,  under  a  high  frieze  repre- 
senting lemons  and  oranges.  Opposite  the  loggia 
on  the  right,  there  is  on  a  large  landing,  a  tele- 
phone booth,  a  sofa  and  a  rattan  table,  and  at 
the  back  the  staircase  winds  in  a  high  delicate 
spiral  around  the  cage  of  the  elevator. 

When  all  of  the  tenants  occupy  their  respective 
25, 


26  To  Arms! 

homes,  a  score  of  domestics  furnish  diversion  to 
Madame  Miton,  the  concierge.  The  building, 
number  59,  boasts  of  several  chamber-maids,  an 
English  nurse,  a  Fraulein  and  two  valet-chauf- 
feurs who  are  quite  the  fashion  in  the  "big 
houses."  But  since  the  beginning  of  July,  the 
richest  tenants — those  who  are  like  the  plainer 
people  of  the  district  of  L'Etoile — have  gone  to 
the  mountains  or  the  sea;  only  the  small  fry  are 
left,  the  households  where  the  one  servant  is  as- 
sisted by  occasional  outside  women.  The  motor- 
coupe  of  Melinier,  the  lawyer,  and  the  little  auto- 
mobile of  Engineer  Watson  are  no  longer  in  the 
two  coach  houses  at  the  back  of  the  court  near 
Sculptor  Frechette's  studio.  Madame  Miton 
doesn't  complain  of  it.  This  concierge,  a  woman 
as  modern  as  the  furniture,  is  half  bourgeois,  with 
grey  hair;  she  is  fat  and  rosy,  and  differs  from 
Madame  Pipelet,  her  grandmother — for  the  type 
of  Parisian  concierge  has  greatly  changed  since 
the  time  of  Eugene  Sue  and  of  Balzac.  This  one 
has  mahogany  furniture  and  a  chimney  ornament 
of  artistic  imitation  bronze;  she  practises  profes- 


To  Arms!  27 

sional  indiscretion  with  moderation  and  detests 
cooking  with  onions,  so  dear  to  suburban  janitors. 
She  never  condescends  to  dirty  or  menial  work. 
She  is  content  to  ring  the  bell,  watch  the  arrivals, 
and  answer  the  telephone. 

This  morning,  after  having  scolded  Marie 
Pourat  who  is  late,  Madame  Miton  expresses  her 
joy  at  seeing  the  house  grow  empty. — "Madame 
Moriceau  and  Monsieur,  the  Abbe,  are  going  soon 
to  Rochefort.  Mademoiselle  Couzance  is  going 
to  Auvergne ;  Madame  Davesnes  to  Brittany,  and 
Madame  Lepoultre  to  Switzerland.  ...  If  it 
wasn't  for  little  Monsieur  Frechette,  who  hasn't 
a  cent  for  travel,  I  might  think  of  the  country 
myself." 

"Ah!"  says  Marie,  "poor  Madame  Miton,  you 
do  not  know  then  that  Monsieur  Lepoultre's 
daughter  is  coming  back,  with  the  three  boys  who 
muddy  the  staircases  so  dreadfully!" 

"Madame  Delmotte  is  coming  back*?" 

"Her  father  told  me  when  he  took  his  news- 
papers that  she  is  afraid  there  will  be  war!" 

"Heavens!     It  is  possible,  then!     Every  one 


28  To  Arms! 

has  talked  of  it  for  two  days.  .  .  .  Before,  they 
were  occupied  with  the  trial  of  Madame  Caillaux. 
It  was  exactly  like  the  time  of  the  Dreyfus  af- 
fair. And  then,  when  that  is  finished,  we  can't 
get  change,  the  grocers  raise  their  prices  and  it  is 
said  that  the  Germans  are  about  to  mobilise! 
.  .  .  Was  there  any  thought  of  that  a  week  ago1? 
.  .  .  And  my  son  Gustave  is  in  the  reserve !  He 
goes  the  first  day.  .  .  .  Ah !  Marie,  I  am  trying 
as  hard  as  possible  not  to  believe  it,  but  even  the 
thought  of  it  has  affected  the  nerves  of  my  stom- 
ach." 

"And  my  husband,  will  they  take  him  from 
me  too"?  He  is  in  the  territorials." 

"If  he  is  not  very  young,  perhaps  he  will  re- 
main behind." 

"Don't  you  think  so?  The  married  men,  the 
fathers  of  families,  they  won't  go*?  How  could 
we  live?" 

"And  my  Gustave!  Such  a  handsome  boy,  so 
strong  and  earning  wages.  .  .  .  He  thinks  of 
marrying.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  cry,  Madame  Miton.     He  is  not  gone 


To  Arms!  29 

yet,  your  Gustave.  Monsieur  Lepoultre  who  is 
learned  doesn't  believe  at  all  in  the  war.  .  .  . 
Come  take  your  coffee.  It  is  growing  cold.  See ! 
There  is  the  Abbe  Moriceau  and  his  Mamma." 

The  glass  door  of  the  landing  opens  softly,  and 
an  old  woman  appears,  followed  by  a  young 
priest.  Both  are  slender,  dressed  in  black,  and 
they  have  the  same  naive  expression,  the  same 
blue  eyes  that  observe  life  without  reflecting  its 
shadows.  The  mother  is  fresh,  under  her  wrinkles, 
while  study  and  perhaps  austerity  have  paled  the 
cheeks  and  faded  the  eyes  of  her  son. 

Marie  Pourat  and  Madame  Miton  say  a  re- 
spectful good  morning  to  these  two  black  shadows. 
When  the  concierge  makes  a  motion  to  offer  the 
mail,  the  Abbe  refuses,  smiling : 

"Thank  you,  Madame  .  .  .  after  the 
mass.  .  .  ." 

No  doubt,  during  the  hours  of  the  morning  that 
belong  to  God,  the  Abbe  does  not  wish  to  excite 
his  curiosity  with  things  of  earth.  He  does  not 
want  to  think  of  anything  but  their  misery  and 
their  worthlessness.  What  would  the  newspapers 


3O  To  Arms! 

tell  him"?  Of  folly,  the  wickedness  of  men,  the 
strife  of  brutality  against  weakness,  of  injustice 
against  the  right,  and  of  possible  danger  to  the 
country?  .  .  .  This  is  no  novelty  in  the  history 
of  the  world,  and,  for  several  days,  it  has  been  a 
living  and  agitating  reality.  .  .  .  The  Abbe  can 
very  well  wait  another  hour  to  consider  the  evil 
that  is  taking  place.  The  present  hour  is  entirely 
for  prayer  and  the  priest  with  the  infantile  eyes 
feels  himself,  to-day  more  than  ever  before,  a 
mediary  between  doubting  humanity  and  Eternal 
Justice. 

He  goes  with  his  silent  mother  into  the  street, 
where  the  veiled  sun  commences  to  warm  the  new 
fagades.  Some  travelling  hawkers  push  along  the 
edge  of  the  side-walk,  the  carts  that  housewives 
always  wait  for  and  they  announce,  with  modu- 
lated cries,  fine  tender  lettuce  and  new  vegetables. 
This  call  rouses  Madame  Miton. 

"Take  the  mail  quickly  to  the  tenants,  Marie. 
I  am  going  to  buy  some  peas." 

At  the  back  of  the  court  is  Alexandre  Frechette's 
studio.  The  serving  woman  knocks  at  the  door, 


To  Arms!  31 

without  ceremony.  She  supposes  that  the  sculptor 
is  prolonging  the  sweetness  of  his  morning  nap  on 
the  divan  that  serves  him  for  a  bed.  One  knock, 
two  knocks.  .  .  .  Marie  calls : 

"M'sieur  Frechette!"  .  .  . 

She  is  afraid  of  seeing  through  the  door 
brusquely  half-opened,  an  abominable  creature — 
the  model  up  on  a  table!  .  .  .  The  memory  of 
such  a  spectacle,  presented  to  her  scandalised  eyes 
one  day  when  she  interrupted  an  hour  of  posing, 
still  embarrasses  Marie  Pourat,  in  her  prudery  of 
the  working  woman.  .  .  .  After  this  adventure 
she  feels  great  disapproval,  mingled  with  fear, 
for  artists  in  general,  although  she  retains  for 
Monsieur  Frechette,  in  particular,  an  involuntary 
sympathy. 

"Wake  up,  cocoa!  .  .  .  Shall  I  open  the 
door"?  .  .  .  Say,  do  you  want  cocoa*?" 

A  yawn,  some  inarticulate  words,  a  laugh,  soft 
cries.  "Ah !  leave  the  cocoa !  .  .  .  This  isn't  the 
time.  .  .  ." 

Slippers  clatter  on  the  tile  floor  of  the  studio. 
The  key  turns  in  the  lock  ...  a  pretty  hand,  a 


32  To  Arms! 

beautiful  arm  appear.  The  groping  fingers  take 
the  paper  and  nimbly  pick  up  the  bottle  of  milk 
from  the  ground. 

The  door  is  closed.  Within  the  studio  Alexan- 
dre  Frechette  and  his  friend  noisily  argue  over 
the  newspaper.  Marie  Pourat  hears  an  exclama- 
tion, then  a  phrase,  which  seem  to  her  as  shocking 
as  they  are  mysterious : 

"War!  .  .  .  Chic,  that!  They  will  take  the 
cubists  back  to  the  frontier !  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  the  artists!  .  .  .  What  language!  .  .  . 
And  he,"  thinks  Marie,  "is  not  a  rascal  like  so 
many,  with  long  hair  and  velvet  trousers.  .  .  . 
He  is  'a  young  man  of  family.'  He  should  have 
been  a  doctor  or  clerk.  And  he  has  chosen  this 
occupation  that  ruins  his  hands  and  spoils  the 
clean  rooms!  And  all  the  time  he  changes 
women!  .  .  ." 

Meanwhile  Mademoiselle  Julia,  Mademoiselle 
Couzance's  servant,  is  making  signs  at  the  window 
on  the  third  floor.  At  Madame  Lepoultre's,  the 
kitchen  blinds  are  not  raised. 


To  Arms!  33 

"Oh!  Mercy!"  said  Marie  Pourat,  dreamily, 
"how  I  have  wasted  time  this  morning!  .  .  . 
Monsieur  Davesnes  asked  me  to  bring  the  papers 
at  seven !" 


IV 

THE  sunlight  flickered  in  the  ecru  silk  of  the 
curtains,  through  the  partially  closed  blinds. 
While  FranQois  Davesnes  still  slept,  worn  by  a 
long,  laborious  evening,  the  room  quietly  awak- 
ened. A  golden  atmosphere  bathed  the  hangings 
of  old  Jouy,  blue  and  ivory,  which  had  the  ex- 
quisite tone  of  Rouen  porcelain.  The  rustic  fur- 
niture, cut  out  of  light-brown  wood,  received  faint 
reflections  on  its  curved  mouldings  and  its  glossy 
leather.  And  Simone  Davesnes,  half  dressed  in 
her  kimono,  her  blond  hair  turned  back  in  Chi- 
nese fashion,  smiled  at  the  familiar  things  that 
seemed  to  her  to  have  held  her  happiness. 

Seated  on  a  stool,  she  put  on  her  Japanese  slip- 
pers. The  narrow  mirror,  between  the  windows, 
reflected  her  image:  Simone  resembled  women 
of  the  i8th  century,  but  of  the  end  of  the  i8th 
century.  She  had  clear  eyes  and  an  aureole  of 
ash-colored  hair,  made  for  a  blue  band  or  a 

34 


To  Arms!  35 

soft  hat  with  a  drooping  brim.  It  was  not  Manon ; 
it  was  Fanny  de  Chenier;  it  was  Lucille  Desmou- 
lins,  still  happy.  One  could  imagine  her  in  a 
striped  dress,  in  the  park  of  Ermonville,  on  the 
border  of  the  pool  which  reflects  the  artificial  ruins 
and  the  cenotaph  of  Rousseau. 

This  feminine  type  is  full  of  grace,  but  its  suav- 
ity is  not  without  monotony.  The  glance  of  Si- 
mone  sufficed  to  brighten  all  its  tame  sweetness. 
It  was  thoughtful,  strangely  passionate,  and  va- 
riable as  water,  for  it  had  a  thousand  moods;  it 
expressed  sometimes  malice,  but  more  often,  naive 
goodness  and  the  purity  of  a  soul  that  could  not 
be  false. 

Involuntarily  Simone  contemplated  her  face  in 
the  mirror. 

The  beauty  of  women  is  the  visible  radiation 
of  their  happiness.  Simone  had  become  very 
beautiful  since  her  marriage  to  Frangois  Davesnes ; 
and  when  she  looked  at  herself,  she  no  longer 
recognised,  in  the  happy  woman,  the  traits  of  the 
young  girl  she  had  formerly  been. 

Her  father,  Simon  Bouvet,  captain  of  colonial 


36  To  Arms! 

infantry,  died  in  Madagascar  when  she  was  quite 
small.  Educated  in  the  Lodge  House  she  knew 
little  of  her  mother,  who  seemed  to  her  on  visit- 
ing days  like  an  austere  person,  always  in  mourn- 
ing. Madame  Bouvet,  enbittered  by  unhappiness, 
saw  nothing  in  life  but  its  most  sombre  aspect 
and  consoled  herself  for  her  griefs  by  foreboding 
trouble.  Her  gloomy  face  subdued  all  gaiety  and 
crushed  all  joy  and  even  her  friends,  who  pitied 
her,  somewhat  dreaded  her  and  gradually  kept 
away  from  her. 

As  the  presence  of  a  child  was  a  care  to  her 
during  the  vacations,  Madame  Bouvet  willingly 
confided  her  child  to  some  rich  cousins,  the  Bou- 
vets  of  Monderie,  who  lived  in  autumn  in  their 
chateau  of  Plessis-l'Etang.  They  had  one 
daughter  a  little  older  than  Simone.  The  two 
cousins,  in  spite  of  the  inequality  of  their  worldly 
conditions,  lived  together  like  two  sisters  who 
loved  each  other  tenderly. 

When  Simone  lost  her  mother  and  left  the 
Lodge  House,  Monsieur  Bouvet  de  la  Monderie 
gave  her  an  opportunity  for  lessons  in  design  and 


To  Arms!  37 

modelling.  He  noticed  that  she  possessed  deli- 
cate sensibility  and  very  fine  and  perfect  taste, 
and  hoped  that  she  would  become  an  artist.  But 
first  of  all,  the  young  girl  wanted  to  acquire  ma- 
terial independence,  and  she  courageously  re- 
signed herself  to  designing  fashion  figures,  and  to 
creating  with  wax  and  stuffs  those  charming  man- 
nequin-dolls that  are  almost  works  of  art. 

In  this  way  she  passed  the  long  years,  all  of 
her  first  youth.  Without  jealousy,  she  saw  many 
of  her  old  companions  marry,  and  her  cousin,  Nic- 
olette,  become  the  wife  of  Jean  Raynaud,  who 
was  rich  and  fascinating.  The  little  wax  ladies 
representing  successive  Parisian  fashions — Em- 
pire furs,  princess  dresses,  "hobble"  skirts  and 
Oriental  tunics — acquired  a  melancholy  air  un- 
der the  light  fingers  of  Simone.  .  .  .  But,  in 
1912,  after  having  bedecked  an  entire  miniature 
harem  with  gorgeous  coats  and  pearl-trimmed  tur- 
bans, Mademoiselle  Bouvet  dressed  in  white  satin 
a  bride  who  became  the  last  little  figure  of  the  col- 
lection. .  .  . 

That  year,  in  September,  Simone  went  to  stay 


38  To  Arms! 

for  a  short  time  at  Plessis-l'Etang,  with  Nicolette 
Raynaud  and  there  she  met  Frangois  Davesnes. 

He  was  at  that  time  a  lieutenant  of  artillery. 
Jean  Raynaud  had  known  him  from  college  days 
and  had  a  great  affection  for  him.  In  the  slightly 
cosmopolitan  world  frequented  by  Jean  and  Nico- 
lette, there  were  not  many  men  comparable  to 
him.  Frangois  Davesnes  was  both  serious  and 
light-hearted,  a  realist  and  sentimental.  His  very 
supple  quick  mind  was  balanced  by  a  patient  will, 
without  violence  and  inflexible. 

Military  life,  which  often  tends  to  confine  men 
to  the  routine  of  a  specialty,  did  not  keep  him 
from  being  interested  in  everything,  but  his  heart 
remained  very  young.  His  comrades,  his  sol- 
diers, knew  that  he  was  good.  No  one  knew  how 
tender  he  could  be. 

Having  no  longer  a  family,  he  had  accommo- 
dated himself,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  a  solitary 
existence,  because  he  had  been  an  intense  worker, 
and  because  he  had  enriched  his  intellectual  life. 
At  twenty-nine  he  had  an  air  of  precocious  matur- 
ity and  a  natural  dignity,  a  little  distant,  which 


To  Arms!  39 

women  took  for  coldness.  Several  flattered  them- 
selves that  they  could  attract  and  carry  him  off, 
humble  and  submissive,  in  their  train.  But  Lieu- 
tenant Davesnes  did  not  permit  himself  to  be  do- 
mesticated, not  even  by  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
more  than  one  fell  into  the  snare  that  she  herself 
had  laid.  Others  imagining  that  this  officer  would 
marry  a  woman  with  a  large  dowry,  plumed  them- 
selves on  pushing  the  matter  in  society.  Nicolette 
proposed  a  certain  "good  match"  to  him.  Fran- 
gois  quickly  discouraged  this  friendly  solicitude. 
He  loved  his  calling,  in  spite  of  the  small  pay  and 
the  slowness  of  advancement,  and  had  not  felt 
any  desire  to  enrich  himself — especially  by  the 
means  of  marriage. 

Neither  Jean,  nor  even  Nicolette  had  thought 
of  presenting  Simone  Bouvet  to  him  as  a  possible 
fiancee,  for  the  Raynauds,  entirely  occupied  with 
hunting,  dancing,  flirting,  quarrelling  and  becom- 
ing reconciled  with  each  other,  could  not  conceive 
of  marriage  without  luxury  which — they  said — 
rendered  it  supportable.  Also  when  chance 
brought  Francois  Davesnes  and  Simone  Bouvet 


40  To  Arms! 

together,  neither  of  them  attached  any  importance 
to  their  mutual  sympathy,  which  seemed  to  them 
part  of  a  light  flirtation.  The  life  of  the  chateau 
permitted  a  delicious  liberty.  The  autumn  was 
mild  and  golden.  Simone  enjoyed  reading  under 
the  reddening  elms  of  the  park,  and  often  Francois 
seated  himself  near  her.  They  chatted  without 
conventionality,  and  gaily,  of  frivolous  matters 
and  grave,  and  thus,  without  realising  it,  revealed 
themselves  to  each  other.  .  .  .  The  agreement  of 
their  ideas  and  sentiments  so  charmed  them,  that 
they  forgot  to  be  surprised.  Near  Simone,  Fran- 
Qois  was  overwhelmed  with  an  unknown  emotion, 
but  he  concealed  the  homesickness  he  experienced 
when  he  was  separated  from  the  young  girl  for 
a  single  day;  and  Simone,  near  Francois,  had  the 
sensation  of  being  understood  and  protected. 

One  day,  in  the  damp  avenue  where  the  leaves 
had  already  collected,  Frangois  took  the  hand  of 
his  friend  and  asked: 

"May  I  keep  it  always?  Are  you  willing  that 
we  should  go  together  through  life  and  that  this 
little  hand  should  never  leave  mine?" 


To  Arms!  41 

They  became  engaged,  to  the  surprise  and  scan- 
dal of  the  people  around  them,  who  had  been  so 
polite  over  the  supposed  flirtation.  Jean  Raynaud 
was  very  fond  of  Simone.  He  ventured  to  charge 
Francois  with  imprudence.  He  said  to  him: 

"You  are  committing  a  folly,  a  very  great 
folly.  .  .  .  But  how  will  you  live,  Simone  and 
you?" 

Frangois  responded: 

"A  man  can  always  live  and  take  care  of  his 
wife,  if  he  is  not  weak,  drunken,  or  lazy." 

And  as  he  did  not  allow  any  interval  to  elapse 
between  decision  and  action,  he  went  away,  ig- 
nored the  advice  of  his  friends  and  ended  by  find- 
ing a  place  as  engineer  in  an  aviation  factory. 
The  salary  was  modest  for  a  beginning,  but  in 
time  the  situation  would  become  more  advanta- 
geous. 

After  two  years  of  marriage,  the  couple  were 
as  ardently  in  love  as  in  the  days  of  the  honey- 
moon. The  material  difficulties  of  their  life  and 
their  relative  solitude  in  this  Paris  where  they 
knew  few  people,  strengthened  their  attachment. 


42  To  Arms! 

They  were  friends  and  comrades,  reading  the  same 
books,  breathing  the  same  intellectual  atmos- 
phere, prolonging  their  lengthy  conversations,  and 
suddenly  in  a  kiss  becoming  lovers  again,  for  love 
had  given  to  them  all  the  graces,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  days  continued  unbroken. 

All  the  memories  of  these  two  years  and  all  the 
disquietude  which  Simone  still  wished  to  keep 
away  from  her  spirit,  caused  a  deep  tenderness  as 
she  looked  at  Frangois.  His  big  masculine  form 
lay  like  a  beautiful  fallen  tree.  Simone  admired 
his  forehead,  closely  capped  with  brown  hair, 
the  straight  eye-brows,  separated  by  a  wrinkle,  the 
rigid  line  of  the  nose,  the  arched  mouth,  the  firm 
and  pliable  chin.  Sleep  had  effaced  the  marks 
of  time  and  fatigue  on  his  face,  which  had  as- 
sumed the  purity,  the  austere  nobility  and  almost 
the  consistence  of  a  bronze  statue. 

Simone  murmured : 

"My  dear  love !  .  .  .  My  only  love.  .  .  ." 

Frangois  seemed  to  tremble  in  his  rest.  Then 
Simone  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead,  guarding 


To  Arms!  43 

the  sleep  that  was  slipping  away  from  him  like  a 
delicate  veil. 

And  when  he  was  entirely  quiet,  she  crept  away, 
silently.  She  closed  the  door  of  the  room  behind 
her,  crossed  the  vestibule  and  the  passage  leading 
to  the  bathroom.  There  she  was  busy  in  arrang- 
ing her  husband's  toilet  articles  and  clothes  before 
she  lighted  the  tea-kettle.  In  the  dining-room, 
papered  with  a  gay  yellow  paper,  she  went  to 
fetch  the  plates,  the  cups,  and  the  rolls  for  break- 
fast. It  was  for  her  a  pleasant  custom,  a  joy 
renewed  each  morning,  for  she  knew  how  to  create 
pleasures  out  of  the  tasks  imposed  upon  her  by  her 
modest  means.  There  are  no  common  duties  that 
are  not  capable  of  becoming  genuine  rites  of  love ; 
there  is  no  woman  in  love  who  does  not  know  how 
to  serve  the  man  she  adores.  But  the  Parisian 
women  know  how  to  conceal  the  prudent  house- 
wife and  only  let  the  sweetheart  and  lover  be  seen; 
they  know  how  to  gloss  over  their  virtue  with  an 
elegant  frivolity,  and  they  pass  off  with  a  jest, 
the  avowal  of  their  devotion. 

The  cups  were  placed  on  a  napkin  over  the 


44  To  Arms! 

table-cloth,  and  the  water  sang  in  the  kettle, 
when  Simone  heard  Marie  Pourat  entering  the 
kitchen. 

She  noticed  the  agitated  look  of  the  woman 
from  Aveyron. 

"Are  you  ill,  my  good  Marie*?" 

The  other  moaned: 

"Who  is  happy,  to-day*?  .  .  .  Madame  An- 
selme  is  tormented;  the  concierge  weeps;  Gouge 
raises  the  price  of  his  goods;  one  cannot  get  any 
more  change  and  the  daughter  of  Monsieur  Le- 
poultre  is  coming  back  from  Switzerland  because 
she  fears  the  Germans.  .  .  .  There  is  nobody 
that  is  not  upset.  But  the  poor  women  have  a 
lot  of  trouble.  ..." 

And  without  transition: 

"Doesn't  Madame  wish  to  lay  in  a  stock  of 
provisions'?  Every  one  is  doing  it." 

"Have  you  lost  your  head,  out  in  the  neigh- 
borhood6?" said  Simone.  "Provisions'?  As  if 
for  a  siege4?  .  .  .  That  would  be  droll.  ...  Go 
to  your  work,  Marie,  and  above  all,  return  at  ex- 


To  Arms!  45 

actly  ten  o'clock,  because  I  want  to  go  out.  I  am 
to  breakfast  with  Madame  Raynaud.  .  .  ." 

"And  for  dinner?' 

"Be  here  at  five  o'clock.  You  will  find  the 
written  orders  on  the  buffet." 

"And  for  money?" 

"My  poor  Marie!  One  would  think  to  hear 
you  that  war  had  already  been  declared!" 

Relieved  of  Marie  Pourat,  Madame  Davesnes 
stopped  smiling  and  unrolled  her  newspaper. 
With  one  look,  she  took  in  the  titles  of  the  prin- 
cipal articles,  the  latest  despatches  and  some 
phrases  with  disturbed  feeling.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  the  agony  returned  which  she 
had  experienced  the  evening  before,  an  agony 
which  the  words  of  her  husband  and  sleep  had  dis- 
sipated. .  .  . 

"Simone*?  .  .  .  Where  are  you,  Simone*?" 
She  returned  to  the  bedroom.     Francois  was 
up  and  half  dressed  and  received  her  with  a  dis- 
pleased expression.     He  had  opened  the  window 
and  raised  the  blinds. 


46  To  Arms! 

"It  is  eight  o'clock!"  he  said.  "You  promised 
to  waken  me  and  you  let  me  sleep !" 

"You  worked  so  late.  .  .  ." 

"An  order  is  an  order.  It  was  your  duty  to 
waken  me.  .  .  ." 

She  begged  his  pardon  and  Francois  disarmed, 
kissed  her. 

"Give  me  the  paper,  dearest.  I  have  not  time 
to  read  it  all.  But  I  will  buy  others,  a  large  pack- 
age, to  read  in  the  subway.  .  .  .  This  will  be  an- 
other difficult  day  for  me !  It  will  be  impossible 
to  come  back  for  lunch  here.  You  are  going  to 
Nicolette*?  .  .  .  She  will  tell  you  if  Jean  intends 
to  return.  .  .  .  He  should  leave  the  Engadine." 

Simone  murmured  sadly: 

"My  poor  Francois,  what  an  existence  you 
lead  .  .  .  when  are  we  to  have  a  vacation*?" 

"Vacation?  ...  In  Germany,  perhaps.  .  .  ." 

"Oh!" 

"Read.  .  .  .  They  are  fighting  on  the  Drina. 
.  .  .  Germany  refuses  to  mediate  with  Austria." 

Leaning  on  his  shoulder,  she  read  vaguely,  her 
look  confused,  her  throat  tightened.  They  were 


To  Arms!  47 

near  the  window  and  the  sun  shone  on  both  of 
them  with  one  ray  of  light. 

"What  do  you  think  of  all  that?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Nothing  that  is  good.  The  equivocation,  this 
menace  of  mobilising  if  Russia  mobilises,  conceal 
a  well-determined  plan.  ...  It  is  best  for  us, 
as  William  says,  to  keep  our  powder  dry  .  .  . 
and  it  is  not  the  time  to  be  leisurely  ...  I  must 
finish  dressing  and  I  shall  rejoin  you  by  the  tea- 
pot. .  .  .  Come,  come,  Madame,  don't  sulk.  I 
have  scolded  you  a  little,  but  I  love  you,  my  dar- 
ling!" 

He  went  to  the  bathroom  and  soon  returned, 
entirely  dressed  and  ready  to  go. 

Breakfast  was  served.  He  swallowed  his  tea 
without  tasting  it.  He  hurried  Simone: 

"Will  you  give  me  my  gloves'?  .  .  .  And  the 
papers  I  brought  last  evening.  ...  I  am  not  po- 
lite this  morning,  but  my  time  does  not  make  it 
possible.  .  .  .  We  have  equipment  to  turn  over, 
other  things  to  examine.  .  .  .  And  if  they  mob- 
ilise, our  workers  will  go.  .  .  ." 


48  To  Arms! 

"Francois,  I  am  afraid !" 

"You  were  so  reasonable  yesterday!  Mean- 
while the  situation  has  upset  us.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  frightened!" 

"Evil  foreseen,  is  not  inevitable  evil.  .  .  .  We 
must  become  accustomed  in  future  to  this  idea 
that  our  neighbors  will  perhaps — I  say,  perhaps 
— the  war  that  we  do  not  wish  .  .  .  and  which 
we  shall  be  able  to  accept.  .  .  .  The  exigency  will 
find  us  up  and  ready  with  an  answer.  .  .  ." 

He  pressed  Simone  to  his  heart  and  turning  to- 
wards him,  she  saw  his  grey  eyes  moved  with  a 
deep  tenderness.  .  .  . 

"Listen,  my  Simone,"  he  said,  calmly.  "You 
are  sad  because  I  seem  less  tender  to  you  than 
usual,  more  distrait,  more  nervous.  .  .  .  My  heart 
is  all  love,  darling,  you  know  it.  But  are  you 
able  to  comprehend  what  is  happening  to  me,  and 
in  what  a  fever  we  are  living  at  the  factory"? 
There  is  one  thought  that  dominates  our  thoughts, 
pne  duty  surpassing  all  others.  Imagine  that  we 
are  almost  all  officers  on  leave,  or  resigned,  and 


To  Arms!  49 

that  the  army  we  have  left  may  recall  us  tomor- 
row. .  .  ." 

"It  has  already  recalled  you,'*  said  Simone. 
"...  I  see  you  changing  from  day  to  day.  You 
are  becoming  again,  what  you  have  never  ceased 
to  be,  in  the  depths  of  your  soul,  a  soldier." 

"Then,  you  must  love  me  as  one  must  love  a 
soldier,  without  weakness." 

"I  will  try,  Frangois.  .  .  ." 

"You  must  be  calm,  tender,  hopeful,  accepting 
destiny.  ...  I  shall  not  be  really  strong  until 
I  feel  you  strong,  behind  me.  Come,  now,  until 
evening,  my  dearest  wife !" 

She  followed  him  to  the  threshold  of  the  apart- 
ment and  closing  the  door  behind  him,  returned 
to  the  room.  There  she  again  picked  up  the 
printed  sheets  and  her  eyes  wandered  over  them. 

The  sun,  playing  in  the  silken  veil  of  her  loos- 
ened hair,  touched  her  cheek  and  fell  on  the  paper 
with  a  brilliant  ray  exactly  at  the  place  where 
she  could  read: 

"The  day  now  beginning  will  bring  either  peace 
or  war" 


5O  To  Arms! 

War !  .  .  .  People  had  talked  of  it  for  a  week, 
as  a  possible  event  at  some  indefinite  time  which 
might  come  shortly.  They  had  talked  about  it 
especially,  since  the  sending  of  the  Austrian  ulti- 
matum to  Servia.  Far-seeing  men  had  given  the 
alarm  and  diplomatic  exchanges  had  begun.  .  .  . 
But  the  historic  events  taking  place  in  Vienna  and 
at  Belgrade  still  seemed  to  the  idlers  of  the  Boule- 
vard but  new  episodes  of  an  old  quarrel — a  con- 
vulsion in  the  distant  chaos  of  the  Balkans — 
while  the  smallest  incidents  of  the  trial  assumed 
the  importance  of  historic  events!  In  most  of 
the  papers,  the  despatches  and  comments  on  the 
European  crisis  were  relegated  to  the  second  place. 
The  words  of  the  trial,  demanded  eagerly  by  the 
public,  filled  the  pages  to  overflowing.  They 
wagered  for  or  against  condemnation.  People 
who  knew  recited  in  one's  ear  extracts  from 
apocryphal  letters,  and  those  privileged  to  at- 
tend the  trial  enjoyed  as  if  it  were  a  circus,  the 
contest  where  feminine  heart-burnings  were  dis- 
played, where  disappointed  ambitiom  sought  their 


To  Arms!  51 

revenge,  where  soiled  linen  was  washed,  the  secrets 
of  the  buffoon  and  secrets  of  state. 

The  trial  concealed  France  from  strangers, 
spectators  also:  but  for  the  French,  it  obscured 
Europe.  In  the  midst  of  the  clamors  of  the  pre- 
torium  and  of  the  street,  they  did  not  hear  the  first 
rumble  of  thunder  on  the  horizon. 

Now,  Europe  appeared  to  those  who  had  not 
understood  and  watched,  obscure,  full  of  the  un- 
known, like  a  heavy  cloud  descending  in  a  storm. 
Austria  had  thrown  herself  upon  Servia — the  cry 
of  a  small  people  not  wishing  to  die,  had  moved 
Russia,  mother  of  the  Slavs.  Then  the  real  France 
had  shown  herself.  She  held  faithful  to  her  tra- 
ditions, to  her  agreements,  to  her  ancient  honor 
as  a  free  nation.  And  by  her  side,  England  stood 
as  a  friend.  Strong  in  their  pacific  desire,  they 
proposed  an  agreement  founded  on  justice.  They 
remembered  that  the  weak  have  a  right  to  live, 
that  it  is  the  duty  of  the  strong  to  be  just,  if  not 
merciful.  But  she  who  planned  the  mischief  in 
the  dark,  the  Germany  incased  in  iron,  brutal  and 
cunning,  pedantic  and  voracious,  looked  at  them 


52  To  Arms! 

behind  her  spectacles  and  dismembered  them  al- 
ready methodically,  in  thought.  They  said  to 
her,  "Say  a  word  to  your  ally,  who  is  also  your 
servant.  Peace  and  war  are  in  your  hands."  She 
replied  with  ambiguous  talk,  while  waiting  for 
the  hour,  chosen  by  her,  the  hour  that  was  coming 
inexorably,  minute  by  minute.  .  .  . 

And  the  French  felt  it  coming,  this  hour !  .  .  . 
Forgetting  their  family  quarrels,  they  held  close 
together,  heart  to  heart,  hand  in  hand,  in  silence, 
turning  their  faces  in  the  same  direction.  One 
common  thought  absorbed  forty  millions  of  hu- 
man beings.  In  every  house  throughout  the  city 
that  morning,  were  women  who  thought  as  Simone 
Davesnes,  "Perhaps  to-morrow"  .  .  .  and  others 
who  wept  like  Madame  Miton,  and  others  who 
prayed  like  Madame  Moriceau,  and  others  who 
had  a  presentiment  of  the  scourge,  without  under- 
standing the  same,  like  Madame  Anselme,  or 
Marie  Pourat.  And  in  the  streets  the  men  going 
to  their  work,  began  to  turn  again  into  what  Fran- 
c.ois  Davesnes  had  become  so  quickly:  sol- 
diers. 


To  Arms!  53 

But  it  was  only  thoughts  that  had  changed; 
the  outward  appearance  of  life  had  not  as  yet 
been  influenced  by  the  approaching  danger.  The 
street  which  Simone  saw  through  the  net  curtains, 
the  street  with  its  chestnut  trees  and  its  cooing 
pigeons,  its  fences  covered  with  varied  advertise- 
ments, its  blue  and  white  masons,  continued  its 
provincial  quiet.  A  little  girl  skipped  the  rope. 
.  .  .  Abbe  Moriceau  and  his  Mamma  returned 
from  the  mass  ...  an  old  chickweed  seller, 
ragged  as  a  tramp  and  red-bearded  like  a  satyr, 
passed,  bent  under  a  weight  of  green  herbs  and 
starry  flowers.  .  .  .  How  many  times,  on  Sun- 
day mornings,  his  little  melody  of  three  notes, 
where  the  freshest  rustic  poetry  beats  its  wings 
like  a  bird,  had  wakened  Simone  and  Francois! 
...  It  was  in  this  same  room  resembling  old 
porcelain  bathed  in  sunlight.  .  .  .  Oh !  lingering 
mornings,  delicious  idleness !  Marie  arrived  later 
than  usual;  she  didn't  make  any  noise  in  the 
house.  .  .  .  The  lunch  seemed  like  a  small  din- 
ner. .  .  .  Simone  and  Francois,  very  often, 
rather  than  mingle  with  the  church-going  people, 


54  To  Arms! 

stayed  at  home.  They  read  various  poems  aloud. 
She  sang  a  few  songs.  The  Raynauds  came  at 
five  o'clock  for  tea.  .  .  .  Beautiful  Sundays,  days 
of  leisure  extending  like  a  white  road  to  nightfall ! 
.  .  .  The  melody  that  called  "Chickweed  for  the 
little  birds"  was  inseparable  from  these  pictures, 
these  memories.  .  .  .  And  the  light-brown  furni- 
ture, the  engravings,  the  glass  between  the  faded 
gold  roses  in  the  old  frame,  the  little  clock  in  its 
leather  case,  the  fine  books  on  the  carved  chest  of 
drawers,  spoke  only  to  Simone  of  the  love  for 
which  they  had  helped  make  an  abiding  place. 
.  .  .  Without,  within  the  dwelling,  nothing  re- 
sponded to  the  disquietude  of  the  woman  who 
sought  everywhere  a  reflection  of  her  sombre 
thoughts.  Why  is  there  not  on  the  eve  of  a  ter- 
rible cataclysm,  something  of  the  unknown  in  the 
tints  of  the  atmosphere,  in  the  sounds,  in  the  si- 
lence, in  the  mysterious  physiognomy  of  material 
objects'?  .  .  . 

Thus  Simone  dreamed,  her  spirit  wrapped  in 
such    a   stupor   that   she    remained    immovable, 


To  Arms!  55 

thinking  of  her  daily  life,  incapable  of  imagining 
what  might  happen  on  the  morrow.  The  "horrors 
of  war"  did  not  haunt  her.  She  did  not  make 
any  mental  picture  of  the  departure  of  Frangois. 
.  .  .  She  thought  only  of  her  happiness,  their 
happiness,  as  a  precious  thing,  escaping  from  her 
hands,  apparently  safe  and  whole,  but  perhaps  to 
be  broken  forever. 


SHE  was  not  yet  dressed  when  the  serving 
woman  returned. 

Simone  was  forced  to  listen  to  her  account  of 
the  incidents  of  the  morning.  Marie  was  not 
more  talkative  or  more  curious  than  most  of  her 
kind.  Secrets  of  private  life,  spread  in  the  serv- 
ants' quarters  or  at  the  stores,  left  her  indifferent. 
But  the  affairs  of  France  belonged  to  all  the 
world  and  every  one  commented  in  his  own  way. 
Already,  some  legends  had  taken  form. 

There  was  one  of  the  Maggi  dairies. 

"Madame  doesn't  doubt  it?  Well,  it  is  a  Ger- 
man house,  quite  full  of  spies.  The  proprietor 
left  with  ten  millions  in  gold  in  an  automobile 
and  was  arrested,  just  as  he  passed  the  frontier." 

"Ten  millions  in  gold  .  .  .  that  would  weigh 
a  lot!  .  .  .  Who  told  you  that?" 

"Juliette,  the  servant  of  Madamoiselle  Couz- 
ance." 

56 


To  Arms!  57 

"And  how  did  Juliette  know  it?' 

"A  very  reliable  man  said  it  right  before  her, 
at  the  post  office.  He  said  also  that  if  war  is 
declared,  the  milk  will  be  poisoned  by  spies,  to 
kill  the  French  children." 

"Don't  believe  such  stupid  stories,  Marie !" 

"Madame  doesn't  believe  that  there  are  quanti- 
ties of  spies  around  us*?" 

"There  are  many,  I  am  sure.  .  .  .  But  this 
story  of  poisoned  milk.  .  .  ." 

"Nothing  could  be  more  certain.  It  was  a 
man  who  told  Juliette.  .  .  .  And  he  said  besides 
that  they  were  going  to  tear  from  the  wall  the  big 
enamel  plaques,  the  advertisements  of  Bouillon 
K.  .  .  .  There  was  something  written  upside 
down  and  in  cipher,  in  German.  .  .  ." 

Simone  did  not  try  to  discuss  it.  Was  there 
any  truth  in  these  stories  of  spies'?  The  people 
held  them  to  be  absolutely  authentic ;  they  pleased 
a  childish  taste  for  the  marvellous  and  a  natural 
disposition  to  see  traitors  everywhere,  since  their 
confidence — their  imprudent,  excessive  confidence 
—was  disturbed. 


58  To  Arms! 

The  woman  from  Aveyron  had  also  a  fixed 
idea:  provisions.  Almost  all  the  neighbors  had 
taken  precautions,  without  knowing  why.  In- 
stinctive foresight,  so  much  the  more  bizarre  as 
the  Parisian  population  did  not  dote  on  it.  They 
did  not  have  any  real  fear,  nor  any  reasonable  cal- 
culation, in  this  somewhat  droll  excess  of  precau- 
tion. It  was  a  complex  phenomenon,  which  came 
first  and  foremost  from  a  distant  and  irresistible 
association  of  ideas.  War  carried  with  it  the 
possibility  of  siege.  For  people  who  had  lived 
through  the  winter  of  1870  were  still  very  numer- 
ous. They  had  brought  up  two  generations  on 
accounts  of  the  horrible  food:  stewed  cats,  mice 
patties  and  dog  cutlets.  Also  the  good  Parisians 
who  would  accept  without  faltering  a  war  im- 
posed by  Germany,  who  would  accept  with  will- 
ingness to  sacrifice  and  faith  in  victory,  went  au- 
tomatically to  get  at  a  very  high  price  old  dried 
beans,  prunes,  macaroni  and  petrol. 

Their  prudence  had  other  causes.  When  war 
was  declared,  the  general  mobilisation  would  mo- 
nopolise all  the  rolling  stock  of  the  railroad,  block 


To  Arms!  59 

all  the  roads  and  how  could  Paris  be  provisioned'? 
They  had  never  been  through  that  experience.  In 
the  uncertainty,  they  wanted  to  be  sure  of  indis- 
pensable food,  and  not  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  shop- 
keepers who  raised  the  price  of  commodities,  with- 
out shame.  Simultaneously,  the  same  prudence 
which  made  them  put  money  in  chests,  created 
over  night  a  scarcity  of  money. 

The  tac-tac  of  a  motor,  in  the  street,  diverted 
the  attention  of  Simone.  She  saw  an  automobile, 
laden  with  trunks,  stopping  before  her  open  win- 
dow. Monsieur  Lepoultre  descended,  then  his 
son-in-law  and  his  daughter.  Also  Madame 
Miton  went  out  on  the  sidewalk.  She  took  pos- 
session of  the  packages  that  filled  the  interior  of 
the  vehicle  and  submerged  the  three  little  Del- 
mottes. 

The  hope  of  learning  what  had  happened  be- 
yond the  frontier  increased  the  helpfulness  of  the 
good  woman.  .  .  . 

"Give  me  the  children,  Madame  Delmotte. 
How  tired  they  are,  the  darlings !" 


60  To  Arms! 

The  three  boys — two  years,  three  years  and 
four  years  old — were  pale  with  fatigue.  Their 
mother,  a  faded  blonde  who  greatly  resembled 
Monsieur  Lepoultre,  had  red  and  heavy  eyes. 

"We  have  had  a  terrible  journey,"  she  said, 
"and  we  arrived  three  hours  late.  .  .  .  Impossi- 
ble to  find  anything  to  eat  in  the  buffets.  Im- 
possible to  sleep  in  the  crowded  cars.  ...  All 
the  French  are  returning  to  France." 

Monsieur  Lepoultre,  who  acted  as  if  he  were 
guilty,  did  not  wish  to  excite  the  masses,  in  the 
person  of  Madame  Miton.  He  exclaimed : 

"Hurry.  .  .  .  The  chauffeur  is  leaving  the 
trunks  in  the  vestibule.  They  must  be  carried  up 
at  once.  .  .  .  Gabrielle,  take  away  your  ras- 
cals. .  .  ." 

Meanwhile,  Monsieur  Delmotte,  a  big  wretch 
of  an  architect  with  a  brown  beard,  repeated  with 
a  triumphant  air: 

"I  predicted  it  to  you,  Father!  ...  I  am  not 
a  doctor,  not  I.  ...  I  am  not  a  sociologist,  not 
I.  ...  But  I  have  been  in  Germany!  I  have 
seen  the  work  of  people  who  scorn  us  more  than 


To  Arms!  61 

they  hate  us.  I  have  met  their  manufacturers, 
their  bankers,  their  men  of  affairs!  ...  I  have 
no  illusions,  not  I !  .  .  ." 

"I  would  point  out  to  you,  Edouard.  .  .  ." 

"Simple  souls!  .  .  .  The  French  are  eas^ 
marks!  .  .  ."  cried  the  architect,  waving  an  um- 
brella case. 

"Edouard!  Don't  excite  yourself!"  begged 
Monsieur  Lepoultre,  desperately. 

He  remembered  suddenly  that  Madame  Del- 
motte  and  her  children  had  preceded  him  to  the 
family  apartment,  and  without  putting  down  the 
two  valises  that  burdened  his  arms,  he  called : 

"Gabrielle!" 

"Papa?' 

"I  beg  you  to  be  careful  of  your  mother's 
nerves.  .  .  .  Do  not  be  pessimistic!  Don't 
imagine  anything  as  a  fact  that  is  only  a  men- 
ace. ...  I  have  had  to  reassure  the  poor  woman 
greatly,  she  trembles  already  for  her  sons." 

The  chauffeur,  a  placid  old  fellow,  returned  to 
carry  the  heaviest  of  the  trunks  to  the  vestibule. 
He  joined  in  the  talk  with  the  liberty  of  a  citizen 


62  To  Arms! 

who  addresses  other  citizens  about  a  public  matter 
and  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  equality. 

"You  have  probably  come  from  that  very 
place?  Is  it  true  that  they  are  mobilising1?" 

"We  were  in  Switzerland,"  replied  Monsieur 
Delmotte,  counting  his  money,  after  looking  at 
the  tariff  card.  .  .  .  "It  is  certain  that  the  Ger- 
mans are  making  military  preparations,  while 
their  diplomats  amuse  us.  ...  They  are  more 
crafty  than  we  are.  When  they  are  ready,  at  the 
moment  decided,  to-morrow,  this  evening,  they 
will  attack  us  on  the  borders." 

The  chauffeur  climbed  back  on  his  seat. 

"And  the  English,  Monsieur*?  They  are  with 
us,  the  English*?" 

"No  one  knows  anything  about  that." 

"They  should  be  with  us !  It  is  to  their  inter- 
est, Monsieur.  .  .  What  will  they  do,  if  Germany 
devours  France?  ...  I  don't  want  to  say  that  it 
would  be  easy  to  devour.  We  must  be  ready  for 
them.  Strong  or  not  strong,  it's  true,  isn't  it,  that 
we  must  defend  ourselves4?  .  .  .  Three,  ninety- 


To  Arms!  63 

five.  .  .  .  That's  the  amount.  .  .  .  Thank  you, 
Monsieur." 

He  out  the  money  in  his  pocket-book,  and  fin- 
ished : 

"Since  the  time  that  the  old  Sourkrouts  pes- 
tered us,  we  have  wanted  to  say  to  them:  'Zut!' 
They  think  that  we  are  not  men.  .  .  .  The 
French,  they  say,  are  all  rotten  and  tuberculous. 
...  At  last  it  gets  to  be  a  nuisance.  ...  I  am 
the  father  of  a  family.  I  earn  my  living  without 
bothering  any  one.  If  an  ill-bred  person  seeks 
satisfaction  from  me,  have  I  got  to  stand  it*?  ... 
Once,  twice,  I  will  say  nothing,  for  I  am  a  peace- 
able man.  But  if  he  insists,  I  shall  punch  him 
in  the  face.  ...  It  is  my  right.  .  .  .  There, 
Monsieur,  is  the  idea  of  a  French  working-man 
on  this  matter  of  the  war." 

"It  is  also  the  idea  of  the  bourgeois,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Delmotte. 

The  automobile  started,  Simone,  involuntary 
vvitness  of  this  scene,  thought  that  the  good  chauf- 
feur had  given  a  very  exact  resume  of  the  na- 
tional feeling. 


64  To  Arms! 

The  care  that  she  was  obliged  to  give  to  her 
toilet  helped  to  calm  her  nerves.  The  necessity 
of  doing  small  actions,  conforming  to  daily  hab- 
its, is  excellent  for  restoring  moral  poise.  When 
Simone  had  rolled  up  her  blonde  hair  around  her 
head,  put  on  her  white  leather  shoes,  her  dark  blue 
serge  dress  and  her  hat  ornamented  with  white 
wings,  found  her  moire  bag,  her  blue  umbrella, 
her  gloves,  her  purse  and  her  keys,  she  was  herself 
again. 

But  before  going  out,  she  consulted  the  memo- 
randum book,  where  she  had  noted  the  program 
of  the  afternoon,  the  list  of  small  errands — gloves, 
veils,  beach  shoes — with  the  hour  for  a  fitting  at 
the  dressmaker's  and  the  addresses  of  several  vil- 
las to  let.  .  .  .  And  the  futility  of  all  the  pur- 
chases, of  all  these  errands  struck  her.  .  .  .  Why 
do  them*?  Why  decide"?  For  what  purpose  was 
an  etamine  dress  embroidered  with  yellow  flowers'? 
.  .  .  Why  prefer  the  Kermarie  villa  to  the  villa 
Kerhostin?  .  .  .  Vacations'?  .  .  .  Who  would 
have  vacations'?  Nobody  on  this  last  day  of  July 
1914  would  be  able  to  carry  out  any  project  but 


To  Arms!  65 

the  most  modest  and  the  most  necessary,  without 
subordinating  it  to  this  terrible  possibility — war! 
.  .  .  More  than  reading  the  papers,  more  than  the 
alarms  of  the  women  and  the  scarcity  of  money, 
this  necessity  of  suspending  life,  of  confining 
herself  to  the  present  moment,  made  Simone  ex- 
perience its  first  real  influence  and  it  was  like  the 
first  direct  contact  with  the  unheard-of  thing  that 
was  approaching.  Already  the  idea  of  the  war 
penetrated  the  spirit  of  the  people  and  hereafter 
it  began  to  weigh  heavily  on  every  man  and  every 
woman,  to  hinder  every  action,  to  abolish  every 
sentiment  that  did  not  belong  to  it. 

To  find  a  taxi-cab,  Simone  walked  up  the  ave- 
nue where  the  warm  gentle  breeze  stirred  the 
leaves  of  the  plane  trees,  and  made  flickering  spots 
of  sun  and  shade.  The  open-air  market  of  fruits 
and  flowers  added  bright  notes  of  color  to  the 
bluish  grey  of  the  Parisian  landscape.  In  the 
carts,  arranged  in  rows  along  the  edge  of  the  side- 
walks, the  baskets  were  empty  because  it  was  the 
end  of  July.  Women  squatted  down  under  the 


66  To  Arms! 

doorways,  and  sold  red  roses  in  bunches  and  large 
rustic  bouquets.  Passers-by,  dressed  in  light  cos- 
tumes, walked  on  the  street  deluged  by  watering 
carts,  heedless  of  infrequent  carriages.  The  creak- 
ing of  the  trolley  announced  the  yellow  street- 
cars which  appeared,  coupled  together,  two-by- 
two,  at  the  angle  of  the  grand  Place.  They  seemed 
to  disjoint  in  turning  around,  then  rigid,  moved 
off  to  the  suburbs. 

It  was  the  ordinary  Paris  of  summer,  noncha- 
lant, dusty  and  blooming,  in  a  misty  light. 
Madame  Davesnes,  a  second  time,  felt  the  sen- 
sation of  astonishment  that  she  had  experienced 
at  the  spectacle  of  the  peaceful  street.  .  .  .  Was 
she  dreaming  now,  or  had  she  dreamed  a  short 
time  before,  when  she  had  felt  as  a  reality,  the 
menace  and  danger1?  .  .  .  The  gaiety  of  the  ave- 
nue, its  fruits,  its  roses,  its  display  of  abundance 
expressing  the  joy  of  living,  brought  back  to  Si- 
mone's  consciousness  the  thoughts  of  yester- 
day. .  .  . 

The  vibrating  automobile  bore  her  away.  On 
the  way  districts  as  numerous  and  different  as 


To  Arms!  67 

cities,  left  their  impression  upon  her,  mingling 
and  gathering  in  her  memory  and  forming  a  su- 
preme image,  the  unique  aspect  of  Paris.  .  .  . 
Shady  avenues  of  the  left  bank,  hedges  and  ter- 
races of  the  Luxembourg,  old  Latin  countries  by 
the  side  of  a  Merovingian  hill,  sluggish  river  re- 
flecting fifteen  centuries  of  glory  between  the 
Gothic  towers  and  the  young  poplars ;  gilded  spire, 
venturesome  as  the  desires  of  a  hero,  royal  ele- 
gances of  the  Louvre,  modern  streets  beautiful 
with  life  and  passionate  movement,  Paris  of  sci- 
ence and  of  dreams,  Paris  of  will  and  of  action, 
making  a  Paris  by  itself.  .  .  .  And  on  the  face 
of  living  stone  and  of  living  sky,  where  so  much 
brightness  and  so  many  shadows  drifted,  Simone 
could  see  on  that  morning,  by  indefinable  transi- 
tions, the  smile  slowly  fading. 

Paris  still  kept  the  charm  which  comes  from  the 
air,  from  the  season,  the  fine  tints  and  the  noble 
architectural  lines  of  an  ancient  and  civilised  city. 
But  as  a  delicate  color  turns  to  grey  when  day 
declines,  the  charm  of  the  French  capitol  waned 
in  seriousness.  An  appearance  of  gaiety  existed, 


68  To  Arms! 

perhaps,  in  the  suburbs  where  the  news  arrived 
more  slowly,  where  the  simplicity  of  the  people 
did  not  give  up  its  illusions  so  quickly.  In  the 
centre  of  the  town,  news  spreads  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  is  commented  upon,  criticised,  understood ; 
the  less  educated  people  adapt  themselves  rapidly 
to  circumstances,  and  the  union  is  more  prompt 
and  more  perceptible  between  the  citizens  and  the 
city. 

Simone  noticed  the  gravity  of  the  faces,  the 
silent  intensity  of  emotion,  in  the  crowd  throng- 
ing between  the  Opera-House  and  the  Saint  La- 
zare  station.  The  people  on  foot  were  not  exactly 
sad,  but  all,  without  exception,  were  serious.  The 
tone  of  conversation  was  lowered.  Even  the  little 
dressmakers  did  not  chatter.  The  coachmen  and 
chauffeurs  collided  with  each  other  without  abuse. 
Women  did  not  look  at  the  shops;  men  did  not 
look  at  the  women.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  running  out 
to  the  corner  of  the  street  a  frantic  newspaper 
seller  brandished  the  leaves  of  a  journal,  yelling 
the  "latest  news."  His  cry  struck  the  nerves  of 
the  startled  crowd  unendurably,  almost  like  a 


To  Arms!  69 

spasm.  There  was  a  swarming  of  ants  around 
the  man,  then  an  eddy  behind  his  distracted 
course.  And  other  cries,  crossing  each  other  like 
projectiles,  beat  against  the  facades  of  the  build- 
ings, the  railings  of  the  station  and  the  darkening 
sky.  Still  other  cries  reverberated,  in  a  dull  roar, 
to  the  depths  of  a  thousand  breasts. 


VI 

THE  private  mansion  of  the  Raynauds,  situ- 
ated on  the  Rue  du  Rocher,  not  far  from 
the  Rue  de  Rome,  had  belonged  to  Nicolette's 
father,  Monsieur  Bouvet  de  la  Monderie.  This 
rather  ugly  building,  in  the  new  Renaissance  style 
in  favor  under  Jules  Grevy,  reminded  Simone 
Davesnes  of  the  melancholy  days  of  her  youth. 
She  had  spent  the  Christmas  and  Easter  holidays 
in  this  sumptuous,  but  rather  lugubrious  house. 
The  faint  light,  diminished  by  complicated  cur- 
tains, was  diffused  like  regret  over  the  sombre 
wainscoting,  the  Flemish  tapestries  and  the  ebony 
chests.  At  four  o'clock  in  winter,  it  was  necessary 
to  light  the  gas.  .  .  .  Simone  longed  for  Mon- 
sieur Bouvet  de  la  Monderie  again,  her  uncle  and 
tutor,  with  his  magistrate's  whiskers  and  his 
bishop's  manner,  and  Madame  Bouvet  de  la  Mon- 
derie, always  ailing  on  her  plush  sofa,  and  Nico- 

70 


I 

pTo  Arms!  71 

lette,  eight  years  old,  wearing  an  English  dress 
that  fell  to  her  feet.  .  .  . 

In  crossing  the  gallery  of  the  first  floor,  where 
she  had  played  so  often  in  times  past,  among  the 
chasubles,  the  pier-tables,  the  Sedan  chairs  and 
armor,  Simone  did  not  recover  any  of  her  child- 
ish impressions.  The  bric-a-brac  was  banished  to 
Plessis-l'Etang,  and  the  long  gallery,  quite  light, 
with  the  green  trellis  that  imitated  porticoes  on 
the  white  background  of  the  wall,  with  its  carpet 
that  looked  like  flagging  and  its  lemon  trees  in 
boxes,  had  the  pleasing  charm  of  an  orangery  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  ran  parallel  to  the 
dining-room,  hung  with  tapestries  of  Rambouillet, 
to  the  pale  purple  salon,  to  the  big  yellow  salon, 
and  it  led  to  the  library  smoking-room  when  Jean 
Reynaud  worked  and  received  his  intimate  friends. 

The  footman  conducted  the  visitor  into  this 
sort  of  oval  pagoda,  with  a  concave,  gilded  ceil- 
ing, furnished  with  low  bookcases  in  black  wood 
and  with  a  violet  satin  divan.  The  Persian  glass 
windows  gave  a  colored  light.  The  wreathed 
columns  of  an  ancient  altar-screen,  loaded  with 


72  To  Arms! 

vines  and  golden  grapes,  was  bathed  in  this  shim- 
mering glow  of  twilight.  Round  cushions,  orna- 
mented with  wool  dahlias,  were  thrown  here  and 
there  on  the  carpet.  Nicolette  Raynaud,  seated 
on  one  of  the  cushions,  was  busy  telephoning. 

"UEpoque?  Is  this  the  paper,  UEpoque? 
...  I  want  Monsieur  Desmoulins,  the  political 
editor.  .  .  .  He  isn't  there?  .  .  .  You  are  sure, 
Mademoiselle?  .  ." 


"That's  it,  find  out.  .  .  .  Please  say  that 
Madame  Jean  Raynaud  is  at  the  telephone.  .  .  . 
Thank  you!  ....  I  shall  wait.  .  .  .  Don't  cut 
me  off!  .  .  ." 

Without  putting  down  the  receiver,  Nicolette 
held  out  her  free  hand  to  her  cousin. 

"How  do  you  do*?  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you. 
.  .  .  You  will  forgive  me?  I  am  telephoning  to 
our  friend  Desmoulins  to  get  all  the  exciting 
news." 

She  smiled,  but  her  black  eyes,  her  sultana  eyes, 
were  sad  and  had  dark  circles  underneath.  Rouge 


To  Arms!  73 

brightened  her  brown  cheeks.  Her  very  dark  hair, 
arranged  like  a  shell,  gave  her  face  long  lines. 
She  had  a  slender  figure,  attractive  because  of  its 
extreme  suppleness,  which  was  draped  rather  than 
dressed  in  green  crepe  de  chine. 

"Sit  down,  Simone.  .  .  .  You  are  well?  .  .  . 
And  Francois?  ...  I  am  a  wreck.  ...  I  dined 
yesterday  with  the  Mongirails  and  when  I  re- 
turned I  had  to  endure  three  telephone  calls  from 
my  mother-in-law,  little  Gardave  and  from 
Maxime.  .  .  .  Has  Jean  returned1?  .  .  .  Has 
he  sent  any  neVs  of  himself?  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  will  not  be  arrested  en  route!  .  .  .  But, 
because  Maxime  urged  it  I  telegraphed  in  the 
morning  to  Pontresina.  ...  I  expected  a  reply 
the  same  day.  .  .  .  And  nothing  came!  .  .  . 
Yes :  a  letter,  which  is  dated  Monday." 

"Did  Jean  seem  to  have  a  presentiment  of  se- 
rious events'?" 

Nicolette  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  understand.  He  wouldn't  go  to  the 
trouble  of  a  correspondence  for  a  woman  who  is 
his  wife.  .  .  .  He  tells  me  that  the  hotel  is  agree- 


74  To  Arms! 

able  enough,  that  his  walking  boots  have  stretched, 
that  he  had  made  Sunday  a  little  trial  ascent. 
.  .  .  And  he  did  not  add  what  I  can  imagine 
without  difficulty:  'Don't  hurry  to  arrive  with 
Fraulein  and  the  brats.  I  can  manage  to  live  en 
gar$on  very  nicely.' ' 

"Nicolette,  you  slander  him!" 

Madame  Raynaud  made  a  gesture  signifying: 

"Don't  speak!  .  .  ." 

And  talking  into  the  instrument: 

"Hello!  .  .  .  Hello!  ...  Is  it  you,  Des- 
moulins?  .  .  .  We  are  cut  off*?  .  .  .  It  is  insuf- 
ferable, Mademoiselle!  Give  me  926-31.  .  .  . 
L'Epoque" 

Simone  sat  down  on  the  divan.  .  .  .  Truly, 
the  smoking-room  did  not  please  her;  everything 
seemed  animated  by  a  brutal  spirit.  Even  in  the 
silence,  one  was  oppressed  instead  of  being 
charmed!  And  this  morning,  especially,  the  bar- 
barity and  affectation  of  this  conglomerate  deco- 
ration irritated  Simone  as  much  as  her  cousin's 
theatrical  costume  and  rouge. 

The  latter  kept  demanding: 


To  Arms!  75 

"926-31.  .  .  .  Hello!  ...  I  am  speaking  to 
Monsieur  Desmoulins  ?  ...  At  last !  .  .  .  Good 
morning,  my  friend!  ...  I  am  not  too  indis- 
creet"? I  want  to  know.  ." 


"No,  Jean  has  not  returned.' 


"Right  in  Pontresina.  At  the  urgent  request  of 
my  brother-in-law,  Maxime,  I  telegraphed  him 
yesterday  morning.  .  .  .  The  answer  did  not 
come.  ...  It  vexes  me.  .  .  ." 

"He  must  return  at  all  cost"?  .  .  .  Alas!  I 
know  it.  ...  All  of  our  friends  are  coming.  .  .  . 
But  do  you  really  think  that  this  haste  .  .  ." 


"A  little  relief  this  morning?  .  .  .  What? 
Jaures  doesn't  understand  the  nervousness  of 
Paris'?  .  .  .  He  still  believes  in  a  pacific  solu- 
tion1? Ah !  if  he  is  only  right !  .  .  .  London  talks 
with  Berlin.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  is  a  conference.  .  .  . 
We  can  still  hope.  .  .  .  You  hear,  Simone*?" 


76  To  Arms! 

"Fraulein?  ...  I  must  send  Fraulein  back. 
.  .  .  But  she  is  inoffensive,  the  poor  creature! 
.  .  .  She  doesn't  understand  anything  that  is  hap- 
pening! .  .  ." 

"™     •     *     • 

"I  shall  say  to  her  that  it  is  for  her  interest. 
.  .  .  But  she  will  be  terribly  sad,  and  I  myself. 
.  .  .  Still,  if  the  conference  of  ambassa- 
dors .  .  ." 

—     •     •     • 

"What?  German  citizens  have  already  gone? 
.  .  .  Then  tney  foresaw  it.  .  .  ." 

•  *     • 

"And  England,  Desmoulins,  will  it  .  .  ." 

•  •     • 

"Not  over  the  telephone?  ...  Ah!  Yes! 
.  .  .  Perfectly.  ...  I  shall  follow  your  advice. 
.  .  .  You  will  call  me  about  three  o'clock?  .  .  . 
Thank  you.  Until  later,  Desmoulins.  .  .  .  Don't 
forget!" 

She  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"You  understood,  Simone?  .  .  ." 

"Nearly  all." 


To  Arms!  77 

"Desmoulins  says  that  there  is  a  relaxing  of  ten- 
sion. .  .  .  From  everywhere,  they  urge  Germany 
to  intervene  at  Vienna.  .  .  .  And  while  the  dip- 
lomats talk,  we  gain  time." 

"Time  that  Germany  will  use  profitably." 

Simone  related  the  tragicomic  return  of  the 
Delmotte  family. 

"You  see  that  the  German  preparations  are 
known  in  Switzerland.  Jean,  who  must  have 
been  warned  of  it  before  us,  has  left  there  with- 
out delay.  .  .  ." 

"I  wish  that  he  were  here!"  said  Nicolette. 
.  .  .  "Desmoulins  has  comforted  me  a  little. 
.  .  .  Meanwhile,  he  advises  me  to  send  the  chil- 
dren's Fraulein  back  to  her  native  country.  .  .  . 
That  distresses  me,  Simone.  The  girl  has  been  so 
devoted!  ...  I  shall  notify  her  this  noon,  and 
I  shall  arrange  that  she  goes  under  the  best  possi- 
ble conditions.  .  .  .  What  a  grief  for  her  and  for 
the  children!  .  .  .Ah!  my  dear  Simone,  I  have 
all  the  cares  at  once,  all!" 

"Why  did  Jean  go  without  you"?  .  .  ." 

"Jean  detests  travelling  with  the  entire  family 


78  To  Arms! 

and  I  realise  that  the  presence  of  the  children  and 
their  governess  irritates  him  in  the  train.  .  .  .  He 
has  not  a  vocation  for  paternity  like  his  brother 
Maxime,  who,  moreover,  is  a  celibate !  And  then, 
we  are  not  inseparable.  ...  It  is  a  good  while 
since  the  honeymoon  has  set !  ...  You  will  see, 
in  some  ten  years,  if  you  are  not  able  to  live  one 
or  two  weeks  alone!  No,  I  do  not  want  to  be 
separated  from  Jean,  but  I  wish  that  he  would  re- 
turn! .  .  . 

She  resumed  the  aggressive  tone  that  she  af- 
fected, to  hide  her  melancholy.  Her  face  was 
drawn  and  wrinkled,  under  the  paint,  and  this 
suffering  fatigue  of  her  features  made  a  singular 
contrast  to  the  sumptuousness  of  her  green  dress. 

Simone  longed  to  question  her  tenderly.  .  .  . 
She  suspected  a  crisis  in  the  Raynaud  menage,  be- 
cause for  some  time  the  couple,  without  acknowl- 
edging a  misunderstanding,  had  seemed  mutually 
indifferent.  Jean  led  the  life  of  a  voluptuous 
dilettante,  as  artist  of  a  race  lacking  the  creative 
gift  and  a  practitioner  who  lacked  title  and  a  coat 
of  arms.  He  was  a  mixture  of  ardor  and  indif- 


To  Arms!  79 

ference.  He  collected  books,  raised  greyhounds, 
wrote  studies  on  falconry,  but  he  felt  that  all  his 
opinions  were  whims,  all  his  activities  a  series  of 
useless  motions,  all  his  life  an  imitation  of  the 
higher  life,  a  magnificent  harmony  of  thought  and 
of  action  to  which  he  had  never  attained.  .  .  . 
Poor,  he  would  have  been  ambitious;  rich,  he 
squandered  his  energy.  Married  too  young,  as- 
tonished to  be  a  father,  to  have  the  charge  of  a 
family,  he  missed  his  liberty  as  a  celibate.  After 
having  treated  Nicolette  as  a  mistress,  then  as  a 
comrade,  he  did  not  know  exactly  what  she  was 
to  him:  an  ornament,  a  burden,  a  duty1?  ...  Of 
a  certainty  she  was  not  his  mate. 

Nicolette,  sentimental  under  an  appearance  of 
sharpness  which  she  thought  fashionable,  an  ego- 
ist and  consumed  by  a  secret  need  of  tenderness, 
maternal,  with  more  of  passion  than  of  solicitude, 
Nicolette,  with  false  pride  that  tolerated  neither 
criticism  nor  counsel,  suffered  from  not  being 
guided  like  a  child  by  a  very  gentle  master  who 
would  scold  her  sometimes  and  always  cherish  her. 

Her  daughter  and  her  son — six  years  and  nine 


8o  To  Arms! 

years  old — were  not  enough  for  her  heart !  The 
men  who  courted  her  made  no  impression  on  her 
calm  reason  and  her  exacting  imagination.  Se- 
cretly, she  loved  and  admired  her  husband,  with  a 
sort  of  bitterness.  To  others,  she  criticised  him 
sharply. 

Never,  though  a  very  feminine  feeling,  had  she 
made  detailed  confidences  to  Simone,  because  Si- 
mone  was  too  happy,  but  often  she  had  shown  her 
surprise  before  this  evident  and  inexplicable  hap- 
piness. Astonishment  without  any  jealousy,  for 
Nicolette  wanted  to  be  loved  as  Simone  was  loved, 
and  not  to  live  as  Simone  lived.  .  .  .  To  live  in 
an  apartment  on  fifteen  hundred  francs,  in  an  un- 
fashionable street,  travelling  in  the  subway  and 
autobus,  to  be  served  by  a  Marie  Pourat,  wearing 
simple  dresses  and  not  going  to  expensive  parts 
of  the  theatres,  how  could  such  a  life  help  being 
for  a  pretty  woman  a  continuous  punishment"? 
.  .  .  And  meanwhile,  Simone  accomplished  the 
miracle  of  remaining  a  "lady"  with  her  modest  in- 
come, of  being  attractively  dressed,  of  never  seem- 
ing embarrassed  by  the  housework,  which  makes  a 


To  Arms!  81 

woman    commonplace    and    is    unfavorable    to 
love!  .  .  . 

Madame  Davesnes,  who  knew  the  susceptibil- 
ity of  her  cousin,  did  not  venture  to  persist  in  this 
delicate  matter.  To  change  the  subject,  she  be- 
gan to  talk  of  the  children. 

"Pierre  is  out  walking  with  his  Uncle  Maxime," 
said  Nicolette.     "You  will  see  both  of  them  at 
breakfast.  .  .  .  Marianne  is  being  punished  in, 
her  room." 

"What  has  she  done?" 

"She  sprang  upon  her  brother  to  take  a  cake 
from  him.  .  .  .  And  she  bit  his  hand — not  very 
hard — but  with  quite  criminal  intentions.  ...  I 
was  obliged  to  be  severe.  .  .  .  Very  seriously,  I 
said  to  Marianne,  that  she  was  a  savage,  and  that 
she  must  be  treated  like  one,  that  no  one  was  per- 
mitted among  civilised  beings  who  could  not  con- 
trol her  temper  and  who  bit  the  people  around 
her.  .  .  .  Marianne  is  temporarily  excluded  from 
civilisation,  that  is,  shut  up  in  her  room." 

Nicolette's  eyes  brightened  when  she  spoke  of 
her  children.  She  did  not  occupy  herself  with 


82  To  Arms! 

them  continuously  and  they  did  not  console  her 
for  all  her  grief,  real  or  imaginary.  Her  life  as  a 
woman  of  fashion  separated  her  from  them,  as 
from  her  husband;  and  her  lively  maternal  in- 
stinct satisfied  itself  as  well  as  it  could  with  her 
effusions  and  sudden  anxieties. 


VII 

TOWARDS  noon,  Dr.  Raynaud  brought 
back  little  Pierre. 

He  was  very  fond  of  this  nephew,  loved  him 
like  a  son,  and  the  chances  of  heredity  had  made 
the  boy  like  himself.  The  man  of  forty-four 
years,  bald  and  wearing  a  grey  beard,  stunted  by 
a  studious  life  in  a  close  room,  was  ugly — with 
an  agreeable  ugliness,  which  attracted  sympathy 
— while  the  little  boy,  strengthened  by  fresh  air 
and  cold  water,  combined  French  slenderness 
with  animal  grace  and  the  brusqueness  of  an  Eng- 
lish lad.  They  resembled  each  other,  however,  in 
the  forehead  with  large  temples,  the  smile  of 
slightly  heavy  lips  and  the  brown  eyes  that  fast- 
ened upon  things  slowly,  as  if  penetrating  them. 
The  moral  personality  of  the  child,  still  uncertain, 
began  also  to  reproduce  in  its  essential  traits  the 
character  of  the  uncle. 

Maxime  Raynaud  was  ten  years  older  than  his 
83 


84  To  Arms! 

brother  and  he  had  grown  up  under  quite  dif- 
ferent influences.  Born  among  the  rich  bourgeois, 
raised  by  a  family  attached  to  all  the  traditions 
of  respectability  and  of  prudence,  he  became  at 
college  the  pride  of  his  parents.  It  was  the  time 
when  young  men  preferred  a  poem  to  a  football 
game  and  a  philosopher  to  a  champion  boxer. 
Maxime  had  said:  "I  shall  be  a  doctor.  .  .  ." 
For  the  parents  that  meant  "I  shall  be  a  doctor  in 
a  hospital,  professor  in  the  faculty,  member  of  the 
Academy  of  Medicine,  and  I  shall  have  a  golden 
practice  that  my  income  will  permit  me  to  wait 
for.  .  .  ."  Maxime  had  arranged  his  life  on  an- 
other plan:  He  wished  to  be  a  man  of  science 
and  a  free  man.  The  disappointed  family  Ray- 
naud  lamented  over  having  nourished  in  his  per- 
son a  hopeless  dreamer,  and  transferred  its  hopes 
of  glorification  to  the  younger  brother,  whose  cap- 
tivating qualities  were  to  remain  unfruitful. 

Maxime  Raynaud,  with  his  inflexible  gentle- 
ness, carried  out  his  projects.  He  worked  with 
Duclaux  and  Roux,  at  the  Pasteur  Institute,  then 
in  a  small  personal  laboratory.  Almost  all  of  his 


To  Arms!  85 

income  went  to  his  Grenelle  dispensary.  At  the 
same  time  he  experienced,  like  all  of  his  comrades, 
the  attractions  of  public  life.  France  itself,  at 
that  time,  was  rent  over  a  contest  in  which  it  was 
necessary,  in  spite  of  oneself,  to  take  part.  Ray- 
naud  worked  with  Deherme  at  the  University  in 
the  Faubourg  Saint- An  toine ;  he  wrote  also  for 
the  Cahiers  de  la  Quinzaine  with  Peguy,  for  he 
believed  that  France  is  the  greatest  living  example 
of  justice  and  reason.  He  believed  also  that 
peace  would  reign  some  day,  according  to  the 
evangelical  promise,  obliterating  all  frontiers,  for 
all  men  of  good  will.  .  .  . 

The  years  had  passed,  and  the  ideals  so  dear  to 
Maxime  Raynaud  were  no  longer  the  fashion. 
The  man  of  forty  saw  his  old  companions  in  the 
struggle  depart,  some  on  the  road  to  Lourdes,  and 
others  on  the  way  to  the  Palais-Bourbon.  Of 
the  illusions  of  youth,  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
remained  and  the  desire  to  do  right,  a  passion  for 
the  truth  and  a  respect  for  science  not  as  a  vain 
idol,  but  as  a  means  for  serving  man  and  develop- 
ing himself.  The  study  of  nature,  he  affirmed, 


86  To  Arms! 

had  made  him  more  humble,  more  patient,  more 
disciplined.  The  dizziness  of  mysticism  did  not 
trouble  him.  He  was  gay,  because  his  life  was 
simple  and  pure.  He  loved  men,  not  only  from 
pity,  but  from  true  fraternity.  He  was  a  French- 
man, son  of  the  eighteenth  century,  almost  cured 
of  his  ideals,  ceasing  to  strive  after  the  impossible 
without  ceasing  to  be  generous. 

His  parents  had  not  succeeded  in  marrying  him 
according  to  their  code;  he  had  not  been  able  to 
marry  as  his  heart  dictated,  and  he  beguiled  his 
regret  of  paternity  by  occupying  himself  with  his 
little  nephews,  especially  with  Pierre,  who  prom- 
ised to  be  his  son  by  choice.  Nicolette  and  Jean 
were  not  jealous  of  this  influence  which  saved 
them  care  and  anxiety. 

Little  Pierre  kissed  Simone,  then  let  himself 
fall,  laughing,  on  the  carpet.  Leaning  against  his 
mother,  wrapped  in  her  beautiful  green  crepe 
skirt,  he  began  to  tell  all  that  he  had  done  and 
seen,  with  the  pride  of  a  boy  who  feels  himself 
part  of  a  marvellous  adventure. 


To  Arms!  87 

"Don't  you  know1?  .  .  .  We  went  on  the 
Boulevards:  we  saw  that  there  weren't  any  little 
tables  before  the  cafes,  and  notices  were  posted 
in  the  windows:  'Here  we  do  not  make  change 
for  one  hundred  francs/  If  you  want  to  buy 
something  and  you  have  one  hundred  francs  it  is 
not  enough — without  sous.  We  went  in  the 
streets  by  the  side  of  the  bank;  there  were  a  lot 
of  men  and  women  who  stood  in  line  for  money. 
There  were  some  who  had  taken  folding  chairs; 
and  they  sat  down;  and  they  ate  bread  and  ham. 
.  .  .  And  we  saw  cabs  full  of  trunks.  And  peo- 
ple said:  'See!  there  are  Prussians  going  away. 
.  .  .  We  hope  that  we  shall  not  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  again!  .  .  .'  And  others  said: 
'Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again  in  Berlin !'"... 

Nicolette  caressed  her  boy's  hair: 

"You  had  a  good  time,  Pierrot1?" 

The  lad  replied  with  conviction: 

"Oh!  yes!  .  .  ." 

The  Doctor,  seated  near  Simone,  looked  com- 
placently at  his  nephew.  He  said : 

"We  two  have  chatted  as  men,   as  citizens. 


88  To  Arms! 

Pierrot  has  patriotic  feelings  that  do  him  credit. 
He  is  ready  to  fight  the  Germans,  but  he  is  chival- 
rous. He  does  not  wish  any  harm  to  ladies  or 
little  girls.  He  refuses  to  consider  his  Fraulein 
as  an  enemy." 

"You  have  felt  the  pulse  of  Paris,  Maxime?" 
said  Simone.  "Don't  you  think  that  our  good 
city  is  in  perfect  health*?  A  little  sad,  but  calm 
and  without  fever." 

Nicolette  cried: 

"What  can  we  know  of  Paris'?  ...  It  is  a 
nervous  city,  capable  of  extraordinary  sudden 
changes.  ...  It  is  sad  to-day,  you  say?  Last 
evening,  without  being  joyous,  it  was  animated 
and  curious  about  what  was  coming.  I  was  able 
to  judge  when  I  was  dining  at  the  Italian  restau- 
rant with  the  Mongirails.  We  made  a  bet,  they 
holding  for  the  condemnation  of  Madame  Cail- 
laux  and  I  for  the  acquittal.  The  stake  was  this 
dinner.  The  Mongirails  paid  the  wager. — Well, 
in  the  dense  crowd  that  we  saw  through  the  bow- 
window,  there  was  much  less  agitation  than  on 
the  evening  of  the  verdict.  The  policeman  were 


To  Arms!  89 

paternal.  People  applauded  the  bands  that 
passed,  singing  the  Marseillaise.  In  the  restau- 
rant were  burlesque  scenes  between  clients  who 
offered  bank  notes  in  payment  and  waiters  who  re- 
fused to  accept  them.  .  .  .  Oh !  I  shall  remember 
this  dinner-party,  Louise  Mongirail  who  wept  in 
her  glass  of  asti,  thinking.  .  .  .- — I  wager  she 
wasn't  thinking  of  her  husband!  .  .  .  and  Mon- 
girail who  consoled  her:  'It  will  only  be  an  af- 
fair of  three  months!  Three  months'  campaign 
and  a  year  of  negotiation.'  And  the  loving 
couples  squeezing  close  together,  excited  by  the 
warm  night  and  warlike  emotions !  .  .  .  Our  dis- 
quietude was  still  able  to  joke  and  smile  around 
tables  loaded  with  dainties,  lighted  with  pretty 
lamps,  with  colored  shades.  .  .  .  Not  one  of  us 
had  the  overwhelming  sensation  that  the  war  was 
more  than  a  word,  that  it  was  a  reality  of  to-mor- 
row. .  .  .  And  we  diverted  ourselves  by  listening 
to  the  many  Italians  who  discussed  with  few 
words  and  many  gestures.  ...  A  fluent  word 
was  on  their  lips,  a  word  of  good  omen:  Neu- 
tralital  .  .  neutralital  .  ." 


90  To  Arms! 

"Heavens!"  said  Maxime,  "Italy  does  not  ad- 
mit that  her  allies  have  the  right  to  engage  in  a 
war  for  the  good  pleasure  of  Austria." 

"Louise  Mongirail  claims  that  she  will  turn 
against  us,  that  England  will  not  fight  and  that 
the  Parisian  Socialists  will  refuse  to  march." 

"Your  friend  is  a  silly  thing  and  a  neuras- 
thenic!" 

"You  do  not  fear  a  revolution,  Maxime?" 

"Nicolette,  you  talk  like  an  agent  of  Germany. 
...  I  believe  in  the  neutrality  of  Italy,  in  the 
support  of  England,  and  I  am  sure — please  listen, 
I  am  sure! — that  the  Socialists  will  go  to  the 
frontier,  with  one  accord,  with  all  the  French." 

Nicolette  was  not  convinced.  She  did  not  have 
exact  notions  about  the  Socialists.  She  pictured 
them  as  hairy  men,  dirty,  quite  eccentric,  born 
enemies  of  priests  and  people  of  the  world,  beings 
who  lived  at  the  wine-merchants'  and  swore  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies 
itself.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  did  not  make  any  dis- 
tinction between  the  revolutionaries  and  the  peo- 


To  Arms!  91 

pie  she  totally  ignored,  for  she  had  never  been  in 
contact  with  any  but  the  "worthy  poor." 

It  was,  between  her  and  Maxime,  an  eternal 
subject  of  controversy.  The  Doctor  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  tease  his  aristocratic  sister-in-law. 

"To-morrow,  if  the  war  breaks  out,  the  people 
alone  will  count,  Nicolette.  It  will  unite  us  all 
in  one  lump  and  you  will  see  Joseph  your  foot- 
man, subaltern  in  the  reserve,  giving  orders  to 
Monsieur  Mongirail,  your  elegant  tango  dancer, 
and  to  witty  Monsieur  Lamoigniere,  writer  of 
coarse  stories!  .  .  .  Joseph  will  teach  them  the 
strict  military  virtues  without  speaking  in  the 
third  person  and  will  show  them  that  an  ex-lackey 
can  be  a  hero." 

Little  Pierre  said  suddenly  in  his  quiet  voice : 

"In  the  subway  I  saw  a  lady  that  was  crying. 
She  looked  at  the  tunnel  all  the  time  and  she 
cried  without  wiping  her  eyes.  .  .  ." 

Nicolette  stood  up  with  one  movement  of  her 
flexible  body.  She  had  grown  pale  under  her 
paint. 


92  To  Arms! 

"The  women  have  not  finished  crying,"  she 
said  dully. 

The  footman  came  to  announce  that  lunch  was 
served.  Maxime  demanded  his  niece  Marianne. 
They  told  him  about  the  crime  and  the  punish- 
ment. 

"Is  she  all  alone  in  her  room'?" 

"Absolutely  alone.  .  .  .  No,  Fraulein  is  with 
her." 

The  domestic  who  served  the  jellied  eggs  ven- 
tured to  murmur  in  a  respectful  voice. 

"I  beg  pardon  of  Madame.  .  .  'Mademoiselle 
Fraulein'  is  not  with  Mademoiselle  Marianne. 
'Mademoiselle  Fraulein'  is  in  the  pantry  where 
she  became  ill.  .  .  ." 

"What?'  said  Nicolette.  .  .  .  "Explain  your- 
self! .  .  .  Lischen  is  ill?" 

Joseph  maintained  the  officially  inexpressive 
face  suitable  for  a  man  servant  when  his  employ- 
ers question  him  in  public. 

"Madame  must  not  be  anxious.  'Mademoiselle 
Fraulein'  is  better.  The  cook  gave  her  some  medi- 
cine. She  had  an  attack  of  dizziness  and  said  that 


To  Arms!  93 

a  workman  had  told  her  that  they  were  going  to 
send  all  the  Boches  back  to  their  Bocheland.  He 
said  it  like  that,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  be  spite- 
ful, because  .  .  ." 

"I  forbid  you  to  frighten  a  poor  woman.  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  Madame,"  said  Joseph,  wounded  in  his 
feelings,  "we  know  what  is  proper  to  do.  The 
workman  did  not  intend  anything  wrong." 

And  he  added  with  a  compassionate  air  that 
was  not  without  irony : 

"It  is  certainly  hard  enough  to  be  a  German! 
It  is  not  the  fault  of  Mademoiselle  that  she  has 
such  an  unhappy  origin  and  that  her  emperor  is 
a  blood-thirsty  person.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  Lischen  to  come  and  speak  to  me,  after 
breakfast  in  the  smoking-room." 

When  the  servant  had  gone,  Simone  asked: 

"You  have  confidence  in  this  Lischen?  .  .  . 
Where  does  she  come  from*?" 

"The  suburbs  of  Freiberg  in  the  Breisgau.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  a  school  master;  she  has  had 
a  diploma  for  teaching  and  also  for  the  kinder- 
garten. She  has  been  in  the  house  for  five  years 


94  To  Arms! 

and  I  have  congratulated  myself  on  her  excellent 
character  and  services." 

"What  if  she  should  be  a  spy!"  said  Simone 
smiling. 

"Lischen*?  .  .  .  What  secret  of  the  national 
defense  could  she  learn  while  taking  care  of 
Pierre  and  Marianne?  You  don't  want  to  be  like 
the  gossips  who  see  spies  everywhere1?" 

Joseph  brought  the  scalloped  meat — a  little 
burned  because  of  the  patriotic  emotions  of  the 
cook.  No  one  noticed  this  accident.  Besides, 
neither  Maxime  nor  the  two  ladies  were  hungry, 
but  Pierre,  who  was  not  watched,  took  two  por- 
tions. 

The  coffee  was  served  in  the  smoking-room  pa- 
goda where  the  dim  light  gave  an  impression  of 
coolness.  Under  the  influence  of  an  atmosphere 
charged  with  electricity,  Nicolette  became  more 
and  more  nervous.  She  waited  impatiently  for 
Desmoulins  to  call  her  to  the  telephone,  and  twice 
sent  out  for  last  editions  of  papers,  cried  in  the 
street,  which  told  her  absolutely  nothing. 


To  Arms!  95 

"Ah!"  she  said,  with  tearful  irritation.  "It 
is  harder  to  dread  a  misfortune  than  to  endure  it. 
...  I  should  like  to  string  the  hours  on  a  thread, 
bringing  nearer  those  which  will  deliver  us  from 
this  anxiety." 

Simone  was  sad.  She  longed  for  her  husband 
whom  she  had  seen  so  little  for  several  days.  An 
exasperated  longing  arose  in  her  heart  to  go  and 
surprise  him,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  this  temp- 
tation which  distressed  her  and  also  gave  her 
pleasure — because  she  was  sure  of  not  succumbing 
to  it. 

And  minutes  succeeded  minutes.  .  .  .  Maxime, 
moved  by  the  melancholy  of  the  young  women, 
tried  to  distract  them.  He  accentuated  the  op- 
timistic note,  perhaps  with  sincerity,  perhaps  to 
strengthen  his  own  shaken  confidence.  While 
smoking  cigarettes,  and  allowing  them  to  go  out 
in  his  extreme  preoccupation,  he  began  the  old 
pacifist  themes,  which  Monsieur  Lepoultre  had 
developed  so  many  times  in  his  articles  and  his 
conferences. 

But  in  the  course  of  his  talk,  Maxime  was  as- 


96  To  Arms! 

tonished  to  hear  his  own  voice  uttering  vain 
words,  empty  words  which  had  just  now  been 
living  and  hereafter  would  be  dead,  so  dead  that 
they  left  a  taste  of  ashes  on  the  lips. 

A  strange  discouragement  took  possession  of 
him.  He  rejected  the  comforting  illusions  as  he 
had  extinguished  his  cigarette  and  he  murmured : 

"When  it  comes,  France  will  survive.  Of  that 
I  am  sure.  France  cannot  disappear.  .  .  ." 

He  sustained  himself  with  this  thought  and  the 
clear  sound,  the  powerful  note  of  the  truth  re- 
mained in  his  spirit. 

"Yes,  France  will  continue  to  live.  And  if  it 
is  attacked,  we  shall  defend  it,  all,  men  and 
women,  each  in  our  own  way  and  with  one  heart 
and  soul." 

The  strident  ring  of  the  telephone  interrupted 
them. 

He  took  one  of  the  receivers.  Nicolette  took 
the  other.  .  .  . 

Then,  coming  from  the  invisible  and  from  a 
distance,  a  voice  said: 

"Hello!  .      ." 


To  Arms!  97 

Nicolette  responded: 

"It  is  you,  Desmoulins  *?    I  hear  .  .  ." 

"They  have  brought  us  despatches  which  you 
will  read  in  the  five  o'clock  papers.  .  .  .  Ger- 
many ..." 

The  voice  was  lost  in  a  hubbub.  .  .  . 

"Hello!  .  .  .  Desmoulins.  .  .  .  Hello!  .  .  . 
What  is  the  matter?  .  .  .  Please  answer.  .  .  ." 

The  telephone  operator  called: 

"No  one  answers  any  more.  .  .  .  The  commu- 
nication is  cut.  ." 


VIII 

A  LITTLE  hand  pushed  against  the  door  of 
the  smoking-room  and  a  childish  voice  en- 
treated : 

"Mamma,  will  you  please  forgive  me?  ...  I 
will  not  be  a  savage  any  more." 

Nicolette  was  seated  in  a  dejected  attitude. 
The  petition  of  her  daughter  made  her  smile  sad- 
ly. She  replied: 

"Come  in,  Marianne." 

Marianne  entered,  dragging  behind  her  the 
panting  and  groaning  Fraulein,  whom  she  had 
taken  as  a  shield,  and  both  of  them  stopped,  cling- 
ing to  each  other. 

"Fraulein  cries,  Mamma.  ...  I  went  and 
hugged  her  to  comfort  her,  but  that  did  not  com- 
fort her.  She  says  that  she  is  afraid." 

Marianne  had  bare  arms,  bare  feet  in  tiny  rib- 
boned sandals.  Her  ringlets  shone  like  silk  in- 
terwoven with  silver  and  gold.  Her  white  dress 

98 


To  Arms!  99 

was  embroidered  with  red  apples  and  green 
foliage.  Frail  and  dainty,  quite  a  woman  at 
six  years,  she  was  the  incarnate  child  of  luxury, 
the  latest  doll  that  women  of  fashion  sometimes 
exhibit  in  their  drawing-rooms  or  their  automo- 
biles. 

Quite  embarrassed  in  her  role,  she  watched  her 
anxious  mother  with  a  distrustful  eye  and  then 
she  turned  towards  the  native  of  Baden  whose 
large,  square  body  shook  with  sobs. 

"Come,  Fraulein,"  said  Nicolette  sweetly, 
"calm  yourself.  No  one  here  will  do  you  any 
harm.  ...  I  have  heard  that  the  mechanic 
teased  you  a  little  and  I  shall  scold  him  severely. 
He  did  not  intend  to  offend  you.  You  are  a  re- 
spectable woman  and  you  are  with  me:  that  is 
enough  to  make  you  sure  of  being  protected.  .  .  . 
But  we  must  accept  the  inevitable.  War  may  be 
declared  to-morrow.  You  must  go  back  to  your 
own  country." 

"Ach!  I  know  that  Madame  is  good.  ...  It 
has  been  like  my  own  family.  And  the  children 


ioo  To  Arms! 

are  so  nice !  I  was  accustomed  to  being  with  you 
always.  .  .  ." 

"We  shall  not  forget  your  devotion,  Fraulein, 
but  we  must  part.  It  is  not  your  fault  and  it  is 
not  ours  if  the  circumstances  .  .  ." 

"My  sister  has  written  me,  that  there  is  still  a 
fortnight  for  the  return  journey.  .  .  .  And  I  do 
not  believe  that  it  will  be  dangerous  to  stay  in 
France,  as  she  says.  .  .  ." 

"There  is  a  fortnight?" 

"Ach !  she  knew  well  that  we  should  have  war. 
Every  one  knew  it  at  Fribourg.  .  .  .  But  that 
is  not  the  worst." 

"What  more  is  there,  Fraulein?" 

The  German  had  a  red  face  with  a  small,  badly 
formed  nose  and  a  bulging  forehead,  covered  with 
freckles. 

"I  am  going.  .  .  .  Madame  doesn't  know?  I 
am  going  to  marry  Monsieur  Gustave,  next  Christ- 
mas." 

"What  Monsieur  Gustave?" 

"Monsieur  the  receipt  clerk  of  the  Galeries. 
He  is  my  fiance.  He  will  marry  me  next  Christ- 


To  Arms!  101 

mas.  I  do  not  want  to  return  to  Fribourg,  be- 
cause my  father  is  poor.  He  has  too  many  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  Nine!  Six  daughters.  .  .  .  My  sis- 
ter Linda  is  in  London ;  my  sister  Rosa  is  in  Brus- 
sels; the  three  little  ones  are  at  home.  My  father 
does  not  need  me.  I  shall  marry  Gustave." 

Her  tears  trickled  down  on  the  bib  of  her 
apron. 

"Ach!  ...  it  is  ended  now.  .  .  ." 

Lischen  was  not  pretty  in  her  despair.  She 
abandoned  herself  to  it  in  the  insistent  and  un- 
ceremonious way  of  the  Germans,  that  always  car- 
ries with  it  a  certain  element  of  the  ridiculous, 
but  none  of  the  servants  wanted  to  smile.  They 
understood  one  of  the  thousand  little  dramas — 
which  become  pure  classic  tragedy  if  a  poet  places 
them  in  the  heart  of  a  king — and  which  pass  un- 
noticed, without  beauty,  in  the  poor  difficult  lives 
of  the  humble. 

Lischen  had  been  in  France  seven  years;  she 
had  brought  up  Pierre  and  Marianne,  and  the 
bond  attaching  her  to  her  home  in  Fribourg,  to 
her  father,  to  the  needy  sisters,  to  the  troublesome 


102  To  Arms! 

brothers,  had  slowly  weakened.  The  German 
woman,  tame  and  passive,  submissive  to  the  man, 
becomes  denationalised  quicker  than  the  German 
man.  For  Lischen,  her  country  was  the  place 
where  she  had  been  well  received,  well  nourished, 
well  treated  and  well  paid,  where  she  had  found 
children  to  cherish  and  that  idol :  Gustave !  .  .  . 
How  fine  he  was,  Monsieur  the  cashier  of  the 
Galeries;  how  fine  he  was,  with  his  little  cap,  his 
blue  coat  with  gold  buttons,  his  money  bag,  his 
pencil  behind  his  ear!  His  livery  had  the 
martial  elegance  of  a  uniform.  His  flowing 
moustache  expressed  all  the  gallant  hardihood  of 
his  race!  He  criticised  the  government!  He 
knew  how  to  talk  to  ladies!  He  kissed  beauti- 
fully! He  was  economical!  .  .  .  He  was  a 
Frenchman.. 

"I  pity  you,  Fraulein,"  said  Madame  Raynaud. 
.  .  .  Alas,  all  the  fiancees  are  weeping  here  and 
in  your  country,  and  without  doubt  Monsieur 
Gustave  will  suffer  greatly.  .  .  .  The  situation 
for  both  of  you  is  very  cruel,  but  you  must  accept 
it.  We  shall  part  from  each  other  affectionately 


To  Arms!  103 

and  I  hope  that  you  will  be  happy  later,  when 
we  have  the  right  to  be  happy." 

In  the  midst  of  noisy  sobs  the  Baden  woman 
expressed  her  desire : 

"I  wish  to  become  naturalised  right  away. 
Then  I  shall  be  French.  I  shall  marry  Gustave." 

"What !"  said  Nicolette  scandalised.  "You  re- 
nounce your  country  on  the  eve  of  a  war"?  That 
would  be  an  ugly  thing,  Fraulein,  and  Gustave 
,would  not  marry  you.  .  .  .  You  have  brothers 
in  the  German  army4?" 

"Two,"  replied  Lischen  sniffling.  .  .  .  "My 
brother  Karl  and  my  brother  Wilhelm.  But  Fritz 
is  too  little.  .  .  ." 

"Your  Gustave  would  not  like  to  risk  killing 
his  brothers-in-law  in  a  combat!  Forget  every- 
thing that  is  not  your  country  and  your  family. 
.  .  .  Reflect,  Fraulein,  if  your  fiance  had  the 
same  idea  as  you,  he  would  become  a  Ger- 
man. .  .  ." 

"Oh !  that  would  be  lovely,  Madame !  If  Gus- 
tave became  a  German.  I  should  be  able  to  marry 
him." 


IO4  To  Arms! 

"What,  you  would  not  feel  shame  and  horror 
for  him?' 

But  Lischen  did  not  hear  these  subtleties.  She 
sobbed  until  she  lost  her  breath,  while  Madame 
Raynaud  continued  her  harangue.  Little  Mari- 
anne began  to  cry  sympathetically  and  Nicolette 
tried  vainly  to  dam  up  this  double  deluge,  when 
callers  were  announced  and  delivered  her  from 
Lischen.  The  unfortunate  sweetheart  of  Mon- 
sieur the  cashier  of  the  Galeries,  went  away  dis- 
solved in  tears. 

The  unexpected  arrivals  who  had  put  an  end  to 
this  tragicomic  scene  were  welcomed  with  af- 
fectionate exclamations.  They  were  two  hand- 
some young  men,  sons  of  an  old  friend  of  the 
Raynauds,  who  almost  belonged  to  the  family. 
Bertrand  and  Lucien  de  Gardave  had  been  cared 
for  by  Maxime's  parents  as  Simone  had  formerly 
been  welcomed  by  Monsieur  Bouvet  de  la  Mon- 
derie.  They  had  spent  their  childhood  in  a  little 
castle  in  Perigord  where  their  father,  an  ardent 
huntsman,  and  their  mother,  ignorant  and  devout, 
lived  as  nobles  and  parsimoniously,  according  to 


To  Arms!  105 

the  ancient  custom  of  the  country  gentlemen.  One 
of  their  sisters  was  an  Ursuline  nun :  another  had 
married  a  well-born  lieutenant  with  a  small  in- 
come, and  consumed  with  him  in  a  small  garri- 
son, the  principal  of  the  customary  marriage  por- 
tion. The  third  sister  was  always  waiting  for  a 
husband.  When  he  was  fourteen  years  old,  Ber- 
trand  de  Gardave  went  to  Paris,  loaded  with 
scapulars  and  lockets  by  his  doting  mother  and 
entered  Stanislaus  College.  His  young  brother 
joined  him  several  years  later;  but  while  Ber- 
trand  showed  an  exceptional  intelligence,  more 
speculative  than  realistic,  and  a  love  of  study  that 
drew  him  to  a  sedentary  life,  Lucien  cared  more 
for  sport  than  for  books.  In  1914  Bertrand  was 
doctor  of  laws,  connected  with  several  philan- 
thropic causes,  and  principal  contributor  to  a  new 
Catholic  review.  Lucien  prepared  for  the  en- 
trance examinations  at  Saint  Cyr.  He  followed 
the  traditions  of  their  family  which  allowed  a 
Gardave — since  the  Gardaves  were  almost  ruined 
— the  choice  of  liberal  careers,  the  army,  the  bar 
and  diplomacy,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  other 


io6  To  Arms! 

more  lucrative  ones,  but,  said  Madame  de  Gar- 
dave,  "sordid  and  mean."  It  happened,  that  in 
all  of  the  family,  no  Gardave  had  ever  become 
rich,  except  by  an  advantageous  marriage.  This 
way  of  obtaining  fortune  did  not  suit  Bertrand. 
Lucien  might  consent  to  it,  perhaps,  when  he 
achieved  epaulettes;  but  at  this  time,  he  thought 
only  of  fencing  and  football. 

They  had  hardly  been  ushered  in,  Bertrand 
kissing  the  hands  of  Nicolette  and  Simone,  when 
Lucien,  who  was  unrestrained  by  conventions, 
cried : 

'Well,  we're  in  for  it!" 

"Oh !"  said  Maxime,  "you  expect  it !  ...  The 
decree  of  mobilisation  has  not  yet  appeared." 

"No,  but  it  will  to-morrow  or  the  day  after. 
.  .  .  No  one  doubts  it.  ...  You  know  that  we 
were  to  spend  the  vacations  in  England  with  our 
friends  the  Harrisons?  I  come  from  telling  them 
that  the  party  is  deferred — after  the  victory !  .  .  . 
And  I  have  written  the  same,  word  for  word: 


To  Arms!  107 

'Dear  Harry  and  Bob,  before  long  we  shall 
meet  on  the  field  of  battle !'  " 

"But  in  case  of  war,  you  will  not  go,  Lucien," 
said  Simone.  "You  are  too  young." 

The  youth  resisted  her. 

"I  shall  be  eighteen  years  old  in  September. 
I  shall  enlist !  and  Bob  and  Harry  will  enlist  too 
in  the  English  army." 

"If  England  fights  with  us." 

"You  doubt  it?" 

"Sir  Edward  Grey  does  not  give  me  his  inti- 
mate confidences.  ...  I  believe  that  England 
has  the  same  interest  as  we  in  hindering  the  Ger- 
man hegemony;  I  believe  that  they  will  lend  us 
the  co-operation  of  their  fleet,  but  as  to  sending 
us  an  army  .  .  ." 

"It  is  curious!  Yes,  it  is  curious  and  disturb- 
ing to  realise  this  scepticism  of  the  French,"  said 
Lucien.  ...  "I  have  been  four  times  to  Eng- 
land for  vacations.  I  know  that  the  English  are 
serious  people,  very  sure,  very  faithful  to  their 
promises!  ...  Ah!  if  you  knew  Harry  and 
Bob!  .  .  .  Such  boys!  .  .  ." 


io8  To  Arms! 

Maxime  wanted  to  explain  that  the  English 
government  must  consult  public  opinion  before 
making  any  important  decision,  and  public  opin- 
ion in  England  was  formed  more  slowly  than  in 
France.  .  .  .  No  doubt,  our  friends  across  the 
Channel  do  not  yet  realise  the  situation  and  the 
possible  necessity  of  Continental  military  ac- 
tion. .  .  . 

But  the  impetuous  young  man  did  not  hear. 

"I  tell  you;  Harry  and  Bob  will  enlist  and  I 
shall,  too.  That  will  be  a  magnificent  thing." 

"You,"  said  Bertrand,  "will  do  what  Papa 
wishes." 

Lucien  turned  purple. 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  gamin?" 

The  idea  of  war  excited  him.  Passionately  de- 
voted to  physical  culture,  very  proud  of  his 
muscles,  despising  intellectual  effort  and  senti- 
mental complications,  he  had  resolved  to  conse- 
crate his  life  to  action,  without  knowing  very  well 
what  the  action  would  be  for.  Turn  about,  he 
had  dreamed  of  being  Georges  Carpentier  or  Gar- 
ros; he  had  pictured  himself  exploring  in  the  for- 


To  Arms!  109 

est  or  manufacturing  in  a  new  country.  The 
poetry  of  the  aeroplane  and  the  submarine,  of 
peril  and  of  victory,  thrilled  the  imagination  of 
this  youth  who  read  little,  who  had  never  loved 
a  woman  and  who  thought  himself  prosaic  and 
determined.  He  had  decided  at  last  to  be  an 
officer — in  the  Colonies,  naturally — and  he  im- 
agined himself  as  a  rival  of  Barbatier  and  of 
Gouraud. 

In  spite  of  his  youth  he  was  robust ;  but  with 
his  full  and  rosy  cheeks,  his  white  teeth,  his  vel- 
vet eyes,  and  his  glossy  black  hair,  he  looked  so 
fresh  and  young  that  it  made  him  very  miser- 
able. He  envied  the  twenty-five  years,  the  heav- 
ier profile  and  the  short  moustache  of  his 
brother.  .  .  . 

"You  think,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  defiance, 
"that  I  shall  spend  the  summer  in  Perigord,  be- 
tween Papa  and  Mamma,  while  the  others  fight? 
...  I  am  young,  I  seem  even  younger  than  my 
age,  because" — his  cheeks  flushed — "because  I  am 
too  good-looking.  ...  I  have  a  baby's  expres- 
sion. That  disgusts  me,  but  I  am  not  willing  to 


no  To  Arms! 

grow  a  beard  to  make  me  look  older  .  .  .  and 
then,  is  it  the  face  that  counts'?  What  makes  a 
soldier  is  muscles,  endurance,  and  courage.  .  .  . 
I  have  all  that!  .  .  .  And  besides,  for  a  fair 
comparison,  my  biceps  are  different  from  Ber- 
trand's!  .  .  .  Feel  my  arms,  Madame  Daves- 
nes,  feel,  I  beg  you!  .  .  ." 

The  older  brother  exclaimed  with  annoyance: 

"Do  stop,  Lucien,  you  are  a  nuisance!  Ma- 
dame, excuse  this  child,  excited  by  the  smell  of 
powder  in  the  air." 

"He  is  a  little  Gallic  cock!"  said  Simone. 

Lucien  protested : 

"Child !  ...  I  am  as  good  as  you !  .  .  .  I  am 
a  better  walker  and  a  better  shot  than  you.  If 
Papa  will  allow  me  to  enlist — and  I  shall  demand 
it  of  him  by  telegram ! — you  will  see  what  I  can 
do.  ...  To  have  such  a  wonderful  chance,  and 
not  to  be  where  they  are  fighting,  where  there 
is  danger  and  glory !  I  tell  you :  I  should  go  mad ! 
...  At  first,  there  are  never  enough  soldiers. 
France  has  need  of  all  the  French.  Madame  Si- 
mone approves  of  me;  I  see  that  in  her  eye  .  .  . 


To  Arms!  HI 

and  her  husband  will  approve  of  me,  I  am  sure ! 
...  I  shall  go  to  see  him.  He  will  advise  me. 
I  shall  enlist  in  the  artillery." 

"I,  too,"  cried  Pierre,  "I  want  to  enlist; 
Mamma,  if  I  am  too  little  to  be  an  artilleryman, 
I  shall  be  child  of  the  regiment!" 

During  this  time,  Marianne  had  climbed  on  the 
Doctor's  knee. 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  done1?"  said  the  uncle. 
"It  seems  that  you  have  bitten  your  brother  in 
order  to  take  a  cake  away  from  him?  Then,  you 
were  put  out  of  civilisation.  .  .  .  No  one  speaks 
to  you.  .  .  .  You  are  to  have  dinner  alone?" 

"Quite  alone." 

"You  were  like  a  little  savage  or  a  beast.  It 
is  terrible!" 

The  little  one  repeated  placidly: 

"Oh,  yes!  ...  It  is  terrible!  .  .  ." 

"At  least,  do  you  know  what  it  is,  civilisa- 
tion?" 

"Oh!     Yes!  ...  I  know." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 


H2  To  Arms! 

Marianne  looked  at  her  uncle  with  affection- 
ate contempt. 

"Don't  you  know?  .  .  .  Civilisation  is  .  .  . 
is  the  people  who  are  polite  .  .  .  who  don't  take 
things  that  are  not  theirs  .  .  .  who  don't  bite 
their  brothers." 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"Who  don't  say  bad  words.  .  .  ." 

But  the  definition  did  not  satisfy  her.  An  es- 
sential expression  was  lacking.  .  .  .  Marianne 
wriggled  a  little,  put  out  her  tongue  and  ended 
by  finding  what  she  sought: 

.  .  .  "And  behave  well  at  the  table  .  .  .  you 
must  eat  properly.  Mamma  told  me  that." 

The  child  pressed  her  coaxing  head  on  the 
bearded  face  of  the  doctor  and  lowered  her  voice, 
as  if  telling  a  great  secret : 

"She  is  a  nice  person,  Fraulein !  Well,  she  eats 
her  sausage  with  her  fingers  and  when  she  swal- 
lows she  makes  a  noise.  .  .  ." 

"Little  mischief!"  said  Maxime,  smiling.  He 
put  Marianne  back  again,  upright  on  his  knee : 

"Run  and  find  Fraulein!  .      .  Comfort  her! 


To  Arms!  113 

To-morrow,  you  will  not  see  her  any  more.  .  .  . 
She  will  be  able  to  say  in  her  country  that  we 
were  good  to  her  to  the  last.  .  .  ." 

Marianne  ran  away,  on  the  tips  of  her  toes. 
Lucien  de  Gardave  said  thoughtlessly : 

"Why  are  our  French  families  so  foolish  as  to 
have  foreign  nurses^  I  learned  English  and  Ger- 
man when  I  was  twelve  years  old  and  I  flatter  my- 
self that  I  speak  them  pretty  well,  especially  Eng- 
lish. .  .  .  But  my  nurse  brought  me  up  in 
French." 

"And  also,  in  Perigord  dialect,"  said  Nicolette. 

The  young  man  began  to  laugh  heartily. 

"The  Perigord  dialect  is  a  poor  cousin  of 
French  and  there  are  family  traits  between  them. 
My  nurse  gave  me  a  touch  of  accent  revealing  my 
origin  of  which  I  am  proud.  But,  dear  Madame 
— you  have  told  me  yourself — when  your  Pierre 
went  to  school  at  nine,  they  dictated  this  phrase 
to  him :  'The  little  boy  goes  to  breakfast.'  Pierre, 
instigated  by  the  memory  of  his  Fraulein,  wrote : 
'The  litle  boy  goes  to  Friihfast.'  At  his  age,  I 


H4  To  Arms! 

made  many  mistakes  in  spelling,  but  they  showed 
the  influence  of  my  own  country." 

This  discussion  of  comparative  philology  an- 
noyed Nicolette,  and  Bertrand,  who  noticed  it, 
created  a  diversion  by  speaking  of  Jean  Ray- 
naud. 

"His  mother,  whom  we  have  just  left,  is  ex- 
tremely uneasy.  She  persuades  herself,  against 
all  probability,  that  Jean  is  no  longer  at  Pontre- 
sina  and  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  Tyrol.  I 
believe  that  he  did  intend  to  go  there.  Did  he 
absolutely  give  up  this  project*?" 

"Apparently,  yes,"  responded  Nicolette.  "His 
letter,  dated  Monday,  does  not  permit  a  suspicion 
of  change  in  his  itinerary.  But  Jean  always  fol- 
lows his  whims.  .  .  .  He  went,  perhaps,  Tues- 
day or  Wednesday,  alone  or  not  alone.  .  .  . 
He  meets,  sometimes,  pleasant  fellow  travel- 
lers. .  .  ." 

"This  time,  Nicolette,  you  are  the  one  to  say 
foolish  things,"  said  Maxime. 

"Would  it  be  better  if  I  did  them4?" 

"My  dear  little  sister,  your  husband  will  be 


To  Arms!  115 

on  the  firing  line  to-morrow.  Think  of  that. 
That  will  calm  your  nerves." 

Nicolette  bit  her  lips  until  they  bled. 

"Come  with  me  to  our  parents,"  said  Maxime. 
"We  shall  encourage  them  to  have  patience  and 
this  day  will  be  less  hard  for  them.  Think  of  the 
terrible  strain  that  they  may  have  to  endure !" 

"You  are  right,  Maxime.  .  .  .  Poor  old  dears ! 
We  must  not  abandon  them.  ...  I  must  dress 
myself  right  away.  We  shall  take  away  the 
children." 

This  tender  spontaneity  of  Nicolette  compen- 
sated for  her  attack  of  sulks  and  bad  humour. 
Maxime  was  moved  and  thought  severely  of  Jean, 
that  privileged  person  who  foolishly  ruined  his 
own  happiness. 

Bertrand  de  Gardave  went  to  sit  near  Simone, 
on  the  violet  satin  divan. 

"I  intended  to  write  you  and  wish  you  an 
agreeable  vacation,  for  I  did  not  hope  to  see  you 
for  several  months.  All  of  our  projects  are  sus- 
pended at  present.  .  .  .  What  are  you  going  to 


n6  To  Arms! 

do?    You  will  go,  no  doubt,  to  Plessis-l'Etang?" 

"Who  knows?  .  .  ." 

"You  never  think  about  yourself." 

"I  think  about  my  husband,  of  my  friends.  . .  ." 

Bertrand  asserted : 

"The  aeroplane  factory  will  be  taken  for  the 
army?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then,  Lieutenant  Davesnes  will  stay  near 
you." 

"All  the  officers  will  not  be  retained  at  the  fac- 
tory." 

"I  hope  that  they  will  leave  Monsieur  Daves- 
nes at  his  post  for  the  present.  I  desire  it  be- 
cause of  friendship  to  you,  who  will  suffer  too 
much  from  his  departure." 

Simone  said  quickly: 

"My  husband  will  be  like  all  the  French,  ready 
to  obey,  and  he  will  accept  the  post  that  is  given 
to  him  at  the  factory  or  in  a  regiment.  ..." 

"Oh!"  said  the  young  man.  "I  am  a  clumsy 
person.  I  have  agitated  you.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  very  calm,"  responded  Simone.    "But  I 


To  Arms!  117 

do  not  wish — not  yet — to  ask  myself  a  question 
meaning : 'The  lot  is  cast.  It  is  war!'  .  .  .  Leave 
me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

Bertrand  de  Gardave  looked  at  her,  so  touch- 
ing in  her  anxiety.  He  admired  the  ashen  gold  of 
her  fluffy  hair,  the  delicacy  of  a  blue  vein  on  her 
temple,  the  indefinable  color  of  her  eyes,  this 
beauty  in  half-tone,  that  did  not  dazzle,  but  en- 
chanted. What  attraction  in  this  bloom  and 
modesty!  Delicate  Simone,  Princess  of  Racine 
descended  to  the  mediocrity  of  a  bourgeois  exist- 
ence and  remaining  royal  through  elegance  of 
feeling,  and  nobility  that  is  a  great  passion.  It 
was  the  perfect  flower  of  the  race,  the  rose  of 
France,  delicate  and  perfumed,  that  has  no  equal 
under  any  other  sky.  How  greatly  Bertrand  pre- 
ferred her  to  the  brilliant  Nicolette!  How  he 
preferred  her  to  all  women,  to  all ! 

He  thought  sometimes  that  he  would  have  been 
happier  if  she  had  been  less  happy,  because  he 
could  have  consoled  her,  but  he  could  do  nothing 
— or  almost  nothing — for  a  woman  so  completely 
loved.  He  did  not  consider  that  Simone  might 


n8  To  Arms! 

have  complained  because  she  lived  without  lux- 
ury, for  he  judged  her  by  himself,  and  he  knew 
that  she  had  chosen  the  better  part.  And  without 
analyzing  the  sentiment  she  inspired  and  from 
which  he  suffered  to  a  certain  extent,  he  persuaded 
himself  that  everything  was  right  as  it  was,  that 
it  pleased  him  to  have  Simone  just  as  nature  and 
destiny  had  made  her,  fragile  and  brave,  passion- 
ately faithful  and  so  happy  that  she  discouraged 
desire. 

At  twenty-four,  he  had  never  loved  any  woman, 
and  the  mysticism  to  which  he  was  irresistibly 
inclined  had  nearly  always  saved  him  from  light 
connections.  He  was  a  Catholic  and  lived  his  re- 
ligion, and,  while  his  character  was  very  noble, 
he  did  not  have  that  simplicity  which  makes  vir- 
tue easy  to  the  saints.  His  excessively  scrupu- 
lous conscience  marred  all  joy  for  him.  Enrolled 
among  the  young  men  who  intended  to  restore  the 
old  discipline  in  France,  he  blamed  those  who 
did  not  begin  with  their  own  lives. 

Now,  he  felt  the  storm  coming  in  which  he 
would  be  swept  away,  an  atom  in  a  whirling  dust 


To  Arms!  119 

of  humanity.  To-morrow,  private  lives  would  be 
lost  in  the  collective  life  of  the  nation  and  all  that 
gives  value  to  youth,  all  that  men  desire  to  pos- 
sess before  death — health,  force,  fortune,  the  joys 
of  the  spirit,  strong  friendship  and  the  blessing 
that  contains  all  the  others:  love!  ...  all  that 
had  no  more  worth,  had  not  even  any  meaning, 
all  that  did  not  amount  to  anything. 

But  for  one  moment  more,  these  joys  existed, 
that  he  had  recently  neglected  in  order  to  ac- 
quire others,  less  sweet  and  more  grand.  .  .  . 
Why  then  did  Bertrand  regard  these  treasures  of 
life,  forever  unattainable,  with  a  sort  of  retro- 
spective longing,  bitter  as  the  helplessness  of  an 
old  man*?  .  .  . 

Temptation  of  the  evil  spirit,  weakness  of  the 
heart  and  flesh!  .  .  .  Bertrand  de  Gardave  en- 
dured the  fierce  inward  assault  as  he  would  en- 
dure to-morrow  the  attack  of  the  enemy.  He 
looked  at  a  bunch  of  carnations  on  the  table,  the 
books  in  the  red  lacquer  case,  an  exquisite  statu- 
ette and  the  young  woman  in  her  lovely  bloom, 
the  personification  of  love !  .  .  .  .  By  a  powerful 


120  To  Arms! 

effort  of  the  will,  he  substituted  other  images :  the 
study  opening  toward  the  starry  night,  the  lamp, 
the  friendly  books,  the  photographs  of  the  Sibyls 
of  Michael  Angelo,  overlooked  by  an  old  Jansen- 
ist  crucifix  with  raised  arms.  He  recalled  the  in- 
structor that  he  had  loved,  theologians  and  philos- 
ophers, and  the  glorious  conflict  of  ideas,  and  this 
intellectual  atmosphere,  dry  as  the  air  of  moun- 
tain-tops, that  he  had  breathed  with  giddiness. 
.  .  .  This  recollection  soothed  him.  He  thanked 
God  who  had  permitted  him  to  live  a  pure  and 
serious  youth  and  to  hope  at  twenty-five  years  for 
glory  and  death  like  a  double  crown.  .  .  . 

Nicolette  reappeared,  dressed  in  white,  and 
wearing  a  hat  quivering  with  quantities  of  oats. 
She  asked: 

"Simone,  Lucien,  Bertrand,  can't  I  take  you  on 
your  way?  There  is  room  for  you  in  the  limou- 
sine." 

"Leave  me  then  in  the  Rue  de  La-Boetie,"  said 
Lucien.  "I  am  going  to  see  one  of  my  comrades, 
the  captain  of  our  football  team  ...  a  fine  type ! 
Class  of  1916,  like  me!" 


To  Arms!  121 

Simone  said  that  she  wished  to  walk  and  that 
she  could  take  the  underground  quite  easily  at 
some  station. 

Bertrand  de  Gardave  offered  to  go  with  her. 


IX 

FT  was  already  declining,  this  day  which  would 
•*•  bring  peace  or  war. 

It  was  half-past  four.  The  sun  and  the  fog 
after  struggling  since  morning  faded  together  in 
the  heavy  air.  The  mists  hung  low  over  Paris 
and  their  billowy  masses,  penetrated  by  diffused 
light,  seemed  to  absorb  the  rays  in  their  soft, 
white  depths. 

"Let  us  go  as  far  as  the  Boulevard  des  Ital- 
iens,"  proposed  Bertrand,  "to  buy  Le  Temps  as 
soon  as  it  reaches  the  kiosques." 

Simone  assented.  They  followed  the  slope  of 
the  Rue  de  Rome  and  noticed  in  the  square  be- 
fore the  station  dozens  and  dozens  of  vehicles, 
hurrying  from  the  converging  streets.  The  rush 
was  caused  by  the  exodus  of  strangers  and  of 
country  people.  The  young  man  amused  him- 
self by  recognising,  from  their  appearance,  the 
disappointed  tourists,  the  "cowards"  haunted  by 

122 


To  Arms!  123 

fear  of  revolutions,  and  also  the  good  people  with 
dull  brains,  who  had  not  seen,  understood  or  im- 
agined anything,  going  simply  to  spend  their 
vacations  in  some  "cheap  little  hole." 

On  the  Boulevard,  the  enormous  crowd,  dense, 
slow,  covered  the  sidewalks,  reached  the  road- 
way, and  its  surging  tide  surrounded  the  auto- 
mobiles, autobusses  and  the  groups  of  police.  A 
patrol  of  the  Garde  Republicaine  passed.  The 
splendid  mien  of  the  cavalry,  the  flash  of  the  hel- 
mets and  the  waving  of  horse  hair,  recalled  vague- 
ly to  their  minds  pictures  of  the  Roman  troops. 
Applause  resounded.  A  cry  arose:  "Hurrah  for 
the  army !"  The  police  officers  raised  their  white 
sticks  to  block  the  autobusses.  The  human  surge 
slipped  through  the  openings.  When  they  could 
not  see  the  guards  any  longer,  the  space  closed  and 
the  silent  crowd  moved  on,  almost  colorless,  in 
spite  of  its  summer  garments,  between  the  high 
banks  of  houses,  gay  with  flags. 

There  were  as  many  people  as  on  a  fete  day  or 
in  time  of  riots,  but  never  had  joy  or  rage  brought 
about  this  harmony  of  feeling  which  gave  to  the 


124  To  Arms! 

French  of  all  ages  and  all  ranks,  one  spirit  and 
almost  one  aspect.  Because  all  of  them  had  the 
same  thought,  all  had  the  same  expression.  The 
faces,  so  various  in  our  race,  lost  their  individual 
character  and  revealed  an  indefinable  "family  re- 
semblance." An  implied  cordiality  sprang  up, 
in  the  jostling  without  rudeness,  in  the  im- 
promptu dialogue,  in  the  exchange  of  glances  be- 
tween women  thinking  of  their  children,  between 
men  thinking  of  their  country.  The  shops  ex- 
posed articles  of  luxury  for  sale.  The  Morris 
columns  announced  plays,  sketches  with  ballets 
and  light  songs.  It  seemed  very  far  away  already. 
Some  little  tables  had  reappeared  on  the  terraces 
of  cafes,  but  the  people  seated  before  their  slowly 
warming  beer  forgot  to  drink. 

Above  the  grey  roofs  and  the  parched  plane 
trees,  the  sky  piled  its  white,  billowy  clouds  more 
heavily.  Uncertain  as  life,  after  the  alternation 
of  sun  and  shade,  brooded  the  gathering  storm, 
the  breaking  of  which  would  be  almost  a  relief 
to  the  trees  withering  from  thirst,  to  the  people 
trembling  with  exhausting  agony. 


To  Arms!  125 

The  rumbling  of  trucks,  the  buzzing  of  auto- 
mobiles, increasing  and  diminishing,  the  trumpet 
signals,  the  ringing  of  bells  and  the  murmur  of 
innumerable  voices  and  footsteps,  all  the  uproar 
of  Paris,  now  failed  to  reach  the  senses  of  those 
beings  who  continued  to  exist  in  a  sort  of  calm 
hallucination.  They  had  the  sensation  of  a  si- 
lence like  that  which  announces  great  cosmic 
phenomena.  When  there  is  to  be  an  earthquake, 
the  wind  dies  down,  the  animals  are  dumb,  and 
the  immobility  of  death  precedes  the  first  shock. 
So,  waiting  for  the  moment  of  the  convulsion, 
the  people  viewed  life  as  suspended  about  them. 
What  movement  still  continued  seemed  an  effect 
of  acquired  force,  the  play  of  mechanism  still 
acting  an  instant  after  the  cessation  of  its  cen- 
tral motor  power.  And  the  confidence  created 
by  habit  and  adaptation,  the  confidence  of  the  so- 
lidity and  the  stability  of  a  certain  known  order 
of  things,  the  security  given  by  laws,  customs,  re- 
ligions, the  walls  of  the  city,  the  protecting  army, 
solemn  agreements  between  peoples,  suddenly 
gave  place  to  the  idea  of  the  ephemeral  and  of 


126  To  Arms! 

the  provisional.  .  .  .  The  entire  nation  was 
about  to  enter  the  unknown. 

Bertrand  de  Gardave  guided  Simone.  She  fol- 
lowed him  docilely  .  .  .  protected  by  him 
against  the  surging  of  the  crowds.  He  said  to 
her: 

"Let  us  cross." 

She  crossed  the  street  behind  him,  starting  when 
he  pushed  away  the  head  of  a  horse  which  touched 
her.  He  said  to  her: 

"Stay  here,  the  news-boys  will  pass  here 
first.  .  .  ." 

She  waited  near  him,  before  the  window  of  a 
provision  shop.  In  front  was  a  newspaper 
kiosque.  On  the  sidewalk  opposite  was  the 
fagade  of  the  Credit  Lyonnais,  rich  with  heavy 
sculpture.  The  clock  showed  that  it  was  now 
five. 

Suddenly  the  waiting  people  were  moved.  A 
current  carried  them  on  the  same  side,  towards 
the  corner  of  the  boulevard,  and  of  the  street 
where  Le  Temps  had  its  office.  The  news-boys 
loaded  with  damp,  unfolded  papers,  ran  silently 


To  Arms!  127 

in  the  direction  of  the  kiosque.  The  crowd  sur- 
rounded them.  Trembling  hands  held  out  sous 
and  carried  off  papers  like  booty.  Simone  moved 
back,  but  Bertrand,  springing  forward  among  the 
first,  returned  with  a  paper,  while  other  carriers 
at  last  reached  the  besieged  kiosque,  threw  their 
packages  at  the  dealer  and  disappeared  in  all  di- 
rections. 

Bertrand  rumpled  the  paper  as  he  touched  it. 
His  fingers  shook.  He  looked  for  the  latest  des- 
patches on  the  bottom  of  the  sixteenth  page.  Si- 
mone had  taken  his  arm  which  she  pressed  un- 
consciously. An  old  woman  tried  to  read  over 
their  shoulders.  .  .  .  They  heard  Bertrand's 
voice. 

He  read: 

State  of  war  in  Germany. 

Berlin,  July  31. 

A  special  edition  of  the  Berliner  Tageblatt  an- 
nounces that  this  morning  the  Emperor,  by  virtue 
of  article  68  of  the  constitution  of  the  empire, 
has  decreed  that  because  of  information  of  the 


128  To  Arms! 

menacing  military  preparations  of  Russia,  Ger- 
many is  in  a  "state  of  war"  (Kriegszustand}. 

This  measure  is  not  exactly  the  same  as  mobili- 
sation^ but  it  places  the  entire  Empire  under  mili- 
tary authority. 

Mobilisation  will  probably  be  announced  this 
evening. 

The  Emperor  returns  to  Berlin  this  afternoon. 

Some  one  said : 

"I  do  not  understand,  Monsieur.  .  .  .  Will 
you  allow  me  to  see.  .  .  .  Thank  you.  .  .  . 
That  will  do  ...  it  says:  Preparations  for 
war.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  Monsieur." 

Another  voice: 

"Here  .  .  .  look.  .  .  .  They  have  sent:  The 
threatening  notes  to  London  and  to  Paris.  .  .  ." 

Another  voice: 

"And  we?  .  .  .  and  we?  .  .  .  What  can  we 
do?" 

These  words  emerged  from  the  indistinct 
clamor:  "Their  Emperor  .  .  .  England  .  .  . 
a  premeditated  coup.  .  .  .  The  Alliance.  .  .  . 


To  Arms!  129 

They  have  known  it  for  three  days.  .  .  .  France 
will  remain.  .  .  .  France  has  no  fear.  .  .  . 
France  .  .  .  France  .  .  .  France.  .  .  ." 

The  sacred  name  was  on  all  lips.  They  did 
not  cry  it  out.  They  did  not  realise  that  they 
spoke  it.  It  came  like  a  mother's  name  to  the 
lips  of  soldiers  who  are  about  to  die.  .  .  .  Then 
silence  fell  again. 


BERTRAND  and  Simone  continued  through 
the  silent  crowd.  They  no  longer  noticed 
the  amusing  and  banal  decorations  of  the  Parisian 
boulevard.  Like  all  of  the  French,  they  had  not 
been  able  to  estimate  the  slow  encroachment  of 
the  shadow,  which  had  increased  for  three  days 
and  was  now  at  its  zenith.  A  dark  cloud  brooded 
over  France  and  from  its  gloomy  and  cruel  mass 
appeared  the  anticipated  spectre :  war. 

Paris  looked  at  it  steadily,  without  consterna- 
tion, with  a  remnant  of  stupor  and  a  vague  feel- 
ing of  deliverance.  The  people  realised  more  and 
more  distinctly  that  the  nightmare  of  waiting  had 
been  the  severest  trial.  Now,  they  would  awaken 
in  a  new  France;  they  began  to  know,  to  under- 
stand, to  act  and  to  suffer,  instead  of  keeping  the 
ears  strained  and  the  heart  beating.  The  transition 
would  be  short  between  the  bad  dream  and  the 
heroic  awakening.  One  moment  more  to  shake 

130 


To  Arms!  131 

off  the  old  chains,  to  allow  the  life  of  yesterday  to 
drop  behind ;  a  moment  more  of  thought  and  emo- 
tion. .  .  .  Then  would  come  the  rising  en  masse, 
enthusiasm,  and  all  spirits,  relieved  because  the 
sacrifice  was  accomplished,  would  march  towards 
destiny  to  the  song  of  the  Marseillaises. 

Bertrand  de  Gardave  said: 

"I  should  prefer  .  .  ." 

Simone  could  not  help  whispering : 

"Oh!    Say  that  we  shall  be  victorious!" 

He  responded  aloud: 

"We  will  be!" 

His  strong  voice  resounded  in  the  silence  and 
passers-by  who  heard  it  turned  around.  He  re- 
peated : 

"We  will  be  victorious  by  the  force  of  right 
and  the  force  of  arms.  I  am  not  afraid." 

On  his  clear-cut,  dark  face  the  traces  of  anxiety 
were  effaced.  His  youth  bloomed  in  a  lovely 
smile  of  certitude.  He  looked  straight  before 
him,  instead  of  looking  at  the  blonde  woman,  the 
dear  friend  whose  presence,  an  hour  earlier,  had 
shown  him  more  than  he  wished  the  charm  of 


132  To  Arms! 

living.  He  was  already  freed.  Already  he  had 
started  on  the  high-road  where  chanting  victory 
would  lead,  by  thousands,  the  young  men  of 
France.  From  the  lover  and  the  mystic  the  sol- 
dier emerged. 

He  asked: 

"Where  will  you  go  now,  Madame*?" 

Simone  wished  to  go  home  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. 

"I  will  call  a  taxicab,"  said  Bertrand,  "and 
you  will  forgive  me  if  I  do  not  go  with  you.  I 
must  write  my  parents  and  put  certain  affairs  in 
order.  ...  I  suppose  that  the  decree  of  mobilisa- 
tion will  be  published  to-morrow.  I  hope  so. 
.  .  .  Le  Temps  says  that  we  have  not  imitated 
the  example  of  Germany — it  is  not  necessary  for 
a  defensive  military  measure  to  be  interpreted  as 
a  provocation — but  this  measure,  they  say,  may 
cause  an  immediate  clash.  .  .  .  Every  French- 
man must  hold  himself  in  readiness." 

"You  voluntarily  anticipate  the  call  to  arms, 
my  dear  Bertrand!  .  .  ." 


To  Arms!  133 

"At  least,  I  should  respond  to  it  among  the 
first." 

"And  your  father,  your  mother*?  .  .  .  What 
courage  they  will  need!" 

"Yes,  for  them,  it  will  be  hard.  .  .  ." 

The  brows  of  the  young  man,  his  expressive 
mouth,  became  anxious. 

"Very  hard.  .  .  .  But  they  are  good  French 
people  and  good  Christians.  .  .  .  And  then,  they 
will  have  my  sisters.  .  .  .  Jeanne,  when  her  hus- 
band leaves,  will  return  home  with  her  children; 
Madeleine,  the  poor  girl!  who  hoped  to  marry 
one  of  our  cousins,  will  forget  her  suffering  in 
filial  tenderness.  .  .  .  They  will  combine  with 
the  others,  as  all  families  will  do.  .  .  ." 

They  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Faubourg  Montmartre  and  of  the 
Boulevard.  Not  a  free  automobile  passed.  No 
doubt  they  avoided  the  crowded  spots,  and  the 
few  that  were  to  be  seen  were  going  to  the  sta- 
tions. 

"I  shall  go  to  the  Bourse  Station,"  said 
Madame  Davesnes.  "Don't  come  with  me 


134  To  Arms! 

any  farther,  my  friend,  your  time  is  limited." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  Bertrand: 

"Don't  go  without  seeing  us  again." 

"No,  certainly  not.  .  .  ." 

"Until  to-morrow,  perhaps!" 

"To-morrow,  surely.     Be  brave." 

She  smiled  sadly  and  departed.  The  young 
man  saw  her  lovely  silhouette,  her  blue  dress,  her 
little  hat  trimmed  with  white  wings,  disappear- 
ing in  the  crowd  and  he  thought : 

"May  she  be  spared  misfortune!" 

Then  he  went  his  way. 

Like  the  crowds  in  the  streets,  the  crowds 
massed  in  the  cars  of  the  subway  were  stupefied 
and  silent.  They  spoke  in  low  voices;  they  read 
the  papers  eagerly.  On  the  faces  of  the  women 
the  startled  grief  was  tearless.  Those  who  spoke, 
men  with  white  beards,  decorated  with  the  ribbon 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  well  dressed,  were  list- 
ened to  with  a  respectful  interest.  Some  of  them 
carried  leather  portfolios.  They  were  such  men 
as  the  crowd  imagines  to  be  bankers  and  lawyers. 


To  Arms!  135 

In  grave  and  modulated  tones  they  regretted  that 
Russia  had  not  finished  its  strategic  railway ;  they 
estimated  the  respective  armies  of  the  allied  na- 
tions and  compared  the  English  fleet  with  the  Ger- 
man fleet.  Habitually  well-bred  and  discreet, 
they  said  nothing  of  their  personal  emotions.  The 
passengers  of  another  social  rank,  more  impulsive, 
when  they  were  squeezed  between  their  neigh- 
bors for  the  distance  of  three  stations,  confessed 
naively  their  anxiety  as  husbands  and  fathers. 

One  heard: 

"The  mobilisation  will  be  posted  this  evening." 

"No,  to-morrow." 

"Italy?" 

"Against  us?" 

"Never.  .  .  .  Against  Austria." 

"The  alliance  is  defensive.  The  casus  foederis 
does  not  hold." 

"Mr.  Asquith  should  have  made  a  declaration 
to-day  to  the  House  of  Commons." 

"I  tell  you  that  Italy  will  leave  us  to  pull  the 
chestnuts  out  of  the  fire.  .  .  ," 


136  To  Arms! 

And  they  always  reverted  anxiously  to  Eng- 
land, the  prudent  and  reticent  friend. 

The  Chatelet.  The  white-haired  men  left. 
A  talkative  woman  climbed  in,  burdened  with  a 
basket,  then  a  group  of  very  young  men.  The 
spirit  of  the  populace  entering  with  them,  brought 
a  little  vivacious  chatter.  Continuing  a  talk,  be- 
gun without  doubt  on  the  quay,  the  big  woman 
began  to  say: 

"They  want  us  to  go  and  we  will." 

"Not  you,  huh!" 

"When  there  aren't  any  more  men,  my  boy, 
of  course  the  women  will  go." 

The  young  fellows  turned  around,  and  striking 
their  chests,  affirmed  that  they  would  gladly  take 
the  women. 

"It  would  be  gayer." 

"If  we  can  choose,  I  prefer  the  young  ones." 

A  man  in  a  jacket,  without  a  collar,  and  wear- 
ing a  dirty  hat,  protested. 

He  growled  like  a  fox-terrier  that  was  being 
teased. 

"Women*?  .      .  You  don't  want  them!  . 


To  Arms!  137 

Such  a  good  chance  to  be  a  little  comfortable 
among  men.  .  .  ." 

The  young  men  laughed : 

"Oh!  La!  La!  Monsieur  is  sick  of  it  all! 
He  hasn't  any  luck  with  his  sweetheart.  A  little, 
well-behaved  hen  in  our  quarters  would  be  jolly, 
just  the  same!" 

"There  are  some  women  just  as  good  as  men !" 
said  the  crone.  .  .  .  "For  instance,  Joan  of  Arc! 
You  understand  that  I,  with  a  gun,  am  not  afraid 
of  a  Prussian." 

She  rolled  back  her  sleeves,  and  showed  her 
arms,  hardened  by  work  and  reddened  by  wash- 
ing powders.  Her  glance  called  her  audience  to 
witness.  .  .  .  The  young  men  expressed  their 
sympathy  in  forcible  language.  The  disagreeable 
man  had  retired  to  the  extreme  corner  of  his  seat. 
He  grumbled: 

"Go  and  nurse  your  babies  and  take  care  of 
your  little  children." 

"Children.  ...  I  have  them  all  right!  and  I 
am  quite  able  to  take  care  of  them,  what's  more," 


138  To  Arms! 

smartly  replied  the  rival  of  Madame  Angot.1  .  .  . 
If  that  didn't  make  you  tired !  .  .  .  Cheese  face ! 
Magot!  Reformed  rake!  He  doesn't  like  me, 
the  old  wreck!  ...  I  tell  you  that  a  Prussian 
wouldn't  make  me  afraid,  any  more  than  my  dead 
father ;  he  belonged  to  the  National  Guard  in  '70, 
his  feet  frozen  on  the  ramparts,  and  he  had  the 
medal  of  the  old  combatants.  ...  I  am  only  a 
woman,  but  I  tell  you  over  the  ashes  of  my  father, 
that  I  am  sorry  enough  to  be  one.  .  .  .  But  I 
have  a  husband  who  will  go  to  represent  the 
Boujiron  family.  And  my  oldest  boy  will  go 
with  the  class  '15  if  it  is  called  out." 

"What  does  your  husband  do1?" 

"He  is  a  corporal,  Monsieur.  .  .  .  He  is  mar- 
ket porter,  Boujiron,  and  you  understand,  a  husky 
one.  .  .  .  Here's  Saint  Michel !  I  must  get  out. 
.  .  .  Good-bye  to  you  all." 

A  jovial  man  shouted : 

"Compliments  to  Boujiron!" 

With  the  woman,  the  feeble  attempts  at  gaiety 

1  Mme.  Angot,  a  popular  type  taken  from  a  musical  comedy 
"La  Fille  de  Mme.  Angot"  by  Ch.  Lecoq   (1872),  proverbially 

coarse  and  unrefined. 


To  Arms!  139 

and  a  sort  of  big  plebeian  optimism,  not  without 
its   influence   on   depressed   spirits,   disappeared. 
Conversations  were  whispered.     Women  looked 
at  each  other.    Their  staring  eyes  expressed: 
"My  son!  ...  My  husband!  .  .  ." 
And  the  eyes  of  strangers,  filled  with  tears,  re- 
sponded : 

"My  husband!  .  .  .  My  son!  .  .  ." 
When  Madame  Davesnes  found  herself  again 
on  the  Avenue,  the  cries  of  newspaper  men  as- 
sailed her.  Their  barking  of  distorted  words 
broke  the  silence  which  hovered  over  the  Fau- 
bourg, as  it  did  in  the  centre  of  the  city. 

A  young  couple  hurried  along  in  front  of  Si- 
mone:  She  recognised  Alexandre  Frechette  and 
his  little  friend.  They  walked  close  together, 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  The  sculptor  had  put  his 
arm  under  the  arm  of  his  model.  He  said  to  her : 
"You  will  give  me  one  sitting  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. .  .  .  And  then,  finished  or  not  finished,  the 
good  woman  will  stay  as  she  is.  ...  They  will 
say  it  is  done  by  Rodin,  especially  if  I  break  a 
hand  and  if  I  smash  her  nose.  ." 


140  To  Arms! 

"Don't  do  that,  Alexandra !" 

"It  is  to  make  you  laugh.  Laugh  at  once.  .  .  . 
Make  a  nice  smile  for  monsieur.  .  .  .  Say  that 
if  I  am  not  able  to  concern  myself  with  it,  you 
will  go  to  the  moulder.  .  .  .  You  will  superin- 
tend the  moulding  finely.  .  .  „  He  knows  you!" 

"Alexandre." 

"Wipe  your  little  nose.  .  .  .  You  can  cry  all 
alone  at  home.  .  .  That  will  keep  my  clay 
from  drying." 

Simone  stopped  before  Madame  Anselme's 
shop  to  buy  the  last  edition  of  the  papers,  appear- 
ing at  six  o'clock. 

The  stationer,  a  ripe  Ceres  in  a  garnet  dress, 
was  sewing  lace  on  the  collar  of  a  blouse.  Her 
face  was  fresh  and  tranquil. 

"Since  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
Madame  Davesnes,  I  shall  beg  a  favor  from  you. 
...  I  asked  Marie  Pourat  to  speak  to  you  about 
it,  but  that  very  reasonable  woman  is  not  like 
herself  any  more,  her  brain  has  been  so  empty 
since  morning.  ...  It  is  about  the  little  Teys- 
sedre  girls,  the  twins  of  a  printer  who  lives  in  my 


To  Arms!  141 

house.  ...  A  man  who  is  everything  that  is 
good.  ...  It  is  too  bad  that  he  may  die  with 
consumption!  ...  A  lady  took  the  little  ones 
in  her  educational  settlement,  and  they  were  going 
the  4th  of  August  near  Pont-a-Mousson.  .  .  . 
Then  the  mother  came  to  see  me  this  morning  to 
say:  'I  don't  care  to  have  the  children  go  there. 
...  It  isn't  a  safe  place.  .  .  .'  And  why?  On 
account  of  the  war.  ...  I  argued  with  her  a  lit- 
tle about  it,  this  person,  but  they  all  have  their 
own  ideas.  Isn't  it  so"?  Then  at  noon,  I  saw 
Marie  Pourat  who  said  to  me :  'Perhaps  Madame 
Davesnes  can  place  the  children.  She  knows  la- 
dies who  are  busy  with  this  sort  of  thing.' ' 

"I  understand,"  said  Simone,  "that  I  am  to 
give  you  some  information." 

She  remembered  that  a  farmer  of  Plessis- 
1'Etang  had  taken  in  a  dozen  little  Parisians  at 
the  expense  of  the  "CEuvre  des  Colonies" 

"It  is  not  urgent,  Madame.  .  .  .  Thank  you. 
All  the  same,  as  I  said,  the  air  of  the  Vosges  is 
better." 


142  To  Arms! 

Simone  surveyed  the  peaceful  paper  seller, 
among  the  journals  which  told  of  the  worst  fears. 

"But,  Madame  Anselme,  the  Vosges  is  the  fron- 
tier." 

"Well?" 

"If  the  Germans  cross  it?" 

Madame  Anselme  said  gently: 

"Don't  believe  what  the  papers  say.  Monsieur 
Lepoultre  has  explained  to  me  that  it  is  all  false 
news  and  not  later  than  two  o'clock,  I  sold  a  box 
of  paper  to  another  client  who  is  in  affairs,  who 
said  to  me :  'It  is  all  little  intrigues  of  the  Jews.' 
Madame,  I  sell  papers,  but  I  don't  read  them 
any  more.  It  makes  my  blood  run  cold,  especially 
because  I  am  worried  about  my  son  and  the  ex- 
amination he  is  to  pass  to-morrow :  in  philosophy. 
Monsieur  Brunschwig  will  examine  him  at  the 
Sorbonne.  .  .  .  Ah !  if  my  son  succeeds  as  he  de- 
serves, I  shall  pay  for  a  trip  to  Normandy — as  I 
have  reached  my  age  without  ever  having  seen  the 
ocean!  .  ." 


XI 

THE  street  was  almost  deserted.  Before  the 
Gouge  grocery,  the  housekeepers  no  longer 
stood  in  line  and  the  boy  placed  as  a  sentinel  be- 
fore the  vegetables  and  the  boxes  of  fruit,  stuck 
his  melancholy  nose  in  I'Intransigeant.  The  flor- 
ist, Mademoiselle  Florence,  who  gossiping  tongues 
said  had  a  liaison  with  a  very  rich  young  man,  was 
not  seen  on  the  threshold  of  her  attractive  shop, 
surrounded  by  roses  in  pots  and  ferns  like  a  Ma- 
donna of  May.  Mademoiselle  Florence  was  visi- 
ble inside,  where  leaning  on  a  counter,  she  wrote  a 
letter  with  ink  quite  diluted  with  tears,  for  this  un- 
virtuous  creature  had  a  sentimental  little  heart. 
Since  four  o'clock,  the  manager  of  the  Maggi 
Dairy  had  closed  her  shop,  because  a  stone  had 
grazed  its  blue  painted  front.  The  masons  still 
worked  in  the  woodyard,  but  they  did  not  whistle 
now. 

Meanwhile,  some  boys  hopping  on  one  foot, 
143 


144  To  Arms! 

played  hopscotch  with  pebbles,  and  three  little 
girls  in  black  aprons,  with  red  or  green  ribbon 
belts  designating  the  various  classes  of  the  pri- 
mary school,  jumped  rope,  singing.  Two  of  them 
held  the  ends  of  the  rope  which  they  turned  grand- 
ly, and  their  playmate,  very  serious,  jumped  in 
one  spot,  feet  together  and  arms  stretched  out. 
Her  little  braid,  plaited  in  one  strand,  hitting 
against  her  apron,  seemed  to  mark  the  time. 

Madame  Miton  had  cried  since  morning,  in  an 
arm-chair.  She  roused  herself  to  return  to  Si- 
mone  the  catalogue  of  a  large  store  which  sold 
"articles  for  travelling"  at  a  bargain.  The  young 
woman  was  moved  by  the  sad  face,  that  looked 
discolored  and  almost  parboiled  from  crying. 

"Be  brave,  Madame  Miton,"  she  said.  "Per- 
haps something  unexpected  will  happen  to-mor- 
row. ..." 

"Oh !  Madame,  even  Monsieur  Lepoultre  hasn't 
any  more  hope.  He  is  very  much  depressed.  And 
his  wife  has  gone  to  bed.  .  .  .  Monsieur  Melinier 
has  just  returned.  His  automobile  is  still  in  the 
court.  He  said  to  me  as  he  passed:  'They  will 


To  Arms!  145 

mobilise  to-morrow.'  He  knows  many  things. 
Monsieur  Melinier:  he  knows  all  the  ministers. 
.  .  .  There  must  be  a  reason:  we  did  not  want 
war;  we  have  an  easy  conscience,  as  Monsieur 
Lepoultre  says,  but  we  can't  become  Prussians. 
France  is  France.  Each  one  must  do  what  he  can. 
.  .  .  Only,  it  is  hard,  Madame,  it  is  hard  for  the 
mothers." 

"It  is  hard  for  all  the  women." 

"It  is  heart-rending.  It  isn't  because  we  are 
cowards,  Madame  Davesnes,  but  when  we  have 
brought  a  child  into  the  world  and  when  we  have 
nourished  it  and  when  we  have  brought  it  up  by 
hard  work  just  until  it  was  a  man,  and  when  they 
say  to  you:  'Now,  give  him  so  that  he  may  be 
killed,  and  you  are  perhaps  to  be  all  alone  in  your 
old  age,  there  is  nothing  left  for  you.  .  .  .'  It 
is  too  much  to  bear.  It  is  worse  for  you  than  to 
die  yourself.  ...  Ah!  Blessed  Saviour!  If 
there  were  women  in  the  government,  war  would 
be  ended!  It  is  the  soldiers  who  make  the  bat- 
tles, but  it  is  the  women  who  make  the  soldiers. 
.  .  .  Between  you  and  me,  we  always  think  about 


146  To  Arms! 

saving  our  children.  I  cannot  think  that  a  Ger- 
man mother  has  a  different  heart  from  mine! 
There  are  not  two  ways  of  bringing  a  child  into 
the  world,  and  not  two  ways  for  him  to  leave  it, 
and  not  two  ways  of  suffering  when  we  lose  him. 
Nature  is  everywhere  the  same.  .  .  ." 

The  cry  of  distracted  maternity,  of  naked  and 
savage  instinct,  resounded  through  Simone's 
whole  being.  The  old  concierge  with  grey  hair, 
in  the  rooms  furnished  with  mahogany,  seemed 
to  her  a  symbolic  figure  of  the  Mater  Dolorosa. 
No  doubt,  at  this  moment,  despatches  running  on 
the  telegraph  wires,  or  sent  on  air  waves,  were 
carrying  the  same  news  to  France,  Germany,  and 
Russia.  Everywhere,  the  women  who  had  not 
wished  to  believe  in  the  catastrophe  so  incompre- 
hensible to  their  simple  minds,  were  brutally 
crushed  before  the  reality.  .  .  .  Everywhere. 
And  the  women  of  the  Russian  huts,  primitive 
souls  who  knew  nothing  of  the  universe,  and  the 
prolific  German  women  who  lived  in  subjection 
to  men,  and  the  French  women  passionately  de- 
voted to  their  sons,  all,  submitting  to  the  law, 


To  Arms!  147 

faithful  to  their  duty  but  equally  tortured,  ut- 
tered the  same  cry,  the  unavailing  cry  of  the  moth- 
ers which,  from  the  time  of  Hecuba  and  Rachel, 
resounds  eternally  from  age  to  age. 

Madame  Miton  wiped  her  eyes  a  long  time. 
She  sighed  as  she  listened  to  Simone's  sympathetic 
words,  and  to  excuse  herself,  she  stammered  out: 

"One  loses  one's  head  when  one  suffers!  .  .  . 
One  says  things,  without  thinking,  because  it  is 
a  relief!  .  .  .  But,  it  is  certain,  Madame  Daves- 
nes,  that  we  do  not  want  to  become  Prussians." 

Fighting  against  further  tears,  she  recovered 
her  sense  of  professional  duty. 

"Ah !  Madame,  you  are  so  good,  and  you  under- 
stand so  well  how  to  cheer  me  that  I  could  stay 
here  an  hour  talking  to  you !  And  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  that  Monsieur  Davesnes  telephoned  from  the 
factory.  He  asked  if  you  had  returned.  I  said 
that  you  had  not." 

Simone  ran  to  the  telephone  booth,  a  sort  of 
dark  box  which  occupied  an  angle  of  the  stair- 
case, near  the  elevator.  It  took  ten  long  minutes 
to  get  the  connection.  From  the  factory,  they 


148  To  Arms! 

replied  that  Monsieur  Davesnes  was  in  the  work- 
shop and  that  they  would  bring  him. 

The  sound  of  the  bell  called  Simone  at  last. 

Francois  spoke: 

"It  is  you,  my  dear?  I  called  you  half  an 
hour  ago.  I  wanted  to  know  how  the  afternoon 
had  gone,  and  if  you  had  read  the  evening  pa- 
per. .  .  ." 

"I  know  the  news." 

"Germany  is  in  a  state  of  war." 

"I  know  it.  .  .  ." 

"France  will  mobilise." 

"And  you,  you,  tell  me,  where  are  you  going? 
Do  you  know  what  will  become  of  you?  I 
thought  that  you  would  remain  there,  that  you 
wanted  to  inform  me.  .  .  ." 

"No,  Simone,  I  don't  know  anything.  .  .  . 
The  manager  would  like  to  have  me  stay  „  .  . 
but  there  are  too  many  here  and  in  my  case  .  .  ." 

"You  prefer  to  go?" 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  preference.  .  .  .  They 
do  not  consult  me,  my  dearie.  That  is  set- 
tled! .  ." 


To  Arms!  149 

He  found  difficulty  in  speaking.  His  voice 
which  had  been  lowered  so  that  he  could  not  be 
heard  in  neighboring  offices,  was  weakened  still 
more  by  defective  apparatus  and  she  lost  the  force 
and  the  resonance  of  a  living  voice.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  far  away,  from  another  world.  In 
the  booth  which  was  dark  as  a  tomb,  this  feeling 
of  infinite  distance  and  unreality  completed  Si- 
mone's  misery.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  husband 
was  leaving  her,  and  each  word  of  his  beloved 
voice,  instead  of  making  her  strong,  grieved  her. 
Deafened  by  the  wild  beating  of  her  heart,  she 
almost  cried  out  with  distress. 

Frangois  questioned  her: 

"You  are  well?    You  have  good  courage?" 

"Yes." 

"I  was  uneasy  about  you  and  yet,  Heaven 
knows  that  I  have  been  preoccupied  enough  to- 
day in  many  ways !" 

"My  Frangois,  you  thought  of  me,  in  spite  of 
all." 

"Does  that  surprise  you,  naughty  child?  .  ,  , 
I  must  say  eood-bye.  Some  one  wants  me," 


ISO  To  Arms! 

The  voice  died  away  in  the  almost  impercepti- 
ble buzz  of  the  vibrations,  Simone  hung  up  the 
receiver.  A  distress  which  had  taken  hold  of  her 
persisted  and  yet  she  was  happy  because  her  hus- 
band, on  a  day  like  this,  had  retained  his  thought 
for  her,  the  same  loving  and  protecting  solicitude 
with  which  he  had  watched  over  her  for  two 
years. 

Marie  Pourat  had  set  the  table  in  the  tiny  din- 
ing-room. 

"Madame,"  she  said,  on  seeing  Simone,  "I  put 
everything  on  the  cloth,  the  dinner  and  the  des- 
sert. There  are  radishes,  butter,  a  pate,  cold 
meat,  vegetable  salad  and  a  cherry  cream.  I 
should  be  glad  if  Madame  would  permit  me  not 
to  serve  it  this  evening  and  allow  me  to  go." 

"Why,  Marie?" 

"My  husband  expects  me." 

"Ah!  Yes!"  said  Simone.  ...  "I  under- 
stand. You  may  go." 

The  woman  with  thin  arms  and  the  ant's  face 
did  not  cry.  An  indomitable  will  animated  her 
wiry  frame  and  her  spirit  was  mastered  to  con- 


To  Arms!  151 

trol  her  grief.  Marie  Pourat  was  one  of  those 
who  know  how  to  suffer  hunger,  cold,  fatigue,  soli- 
tude, and  deception ;  who  bear  their  children  with- 
out cries,  bringing  up  their  sons  hardily,  supplying 
the  place  of  the  absent  father  and  die  painfully, 
in  silence. 

So  rough  and  large-hearted,  she  misunderstood 
affected  and  delicate  ladies,  but  she  loved  Simone, 
and  the  extreme  weariness  of  the  young  woman 
made  her  sympathetic: 

"If  I  could,  I  should  stay.  I  am  sorry  to  leave 
Madame.  Poor  little  thing.  I  shall  wait  until 
Monsieur  returns." 

Simone  refused. 

"Go,  Marie.  This  evening  we  need  to  be  with 
our  families." 

"Ah!  Madame  understands  all!  ...  To-day, 
they  told  me  that  Germany  had  mobilised.  .  .  . 
Then  I  went  to  the  plumber's.  ...  It  was  a  no- 
tion I  had.  I  wanted  to  see  my  husband.  I 
could  not  believe  the  truth  until  he  told  me  with 
his  own  mouth.  .  .  .  Madame  Anselme,  who  was 
so  afraid,  this  morning,  made  fun  of  me.  ...  I 


152  To  Arms! 

let  her  talk.  I  went,  I  walked  into  the  workshop. 
...  Ah!  What  kind  of  a  song  do  you  think  I 
heard*?  All  the  men  who  were  there  talked  about 
nothing  but  cannon  and  machine  guns,  and  they 
chattered  about  manoeuvres,  and  ranks  and  gen- 
erals and  aeroplanes!  And  one  who  had  served 
his  term  in  the  navy  explained  about  submarines. 
.  .  .  Anthime  saw  me.  He  said  to  me:  'What 
do  you  want?  Is  the  grease  on  fire,  or  is  Poincare 
expecting  me?'  I  didn't  say  anything.  He  looked 
at  me.  .  .  .  'Go!'  he  said.  'This  is  no  place  for 
you.  Each  one  has  his  work.  We  don't  want 
whining  women  around!  That  upsets  the  men. 
We  are  talking  about  the  army.  You  wouldn't 
understand.'  I  left.  He  ran  after  me  and  said 
very  gently :  'Cheer  up,  my  Marie,  and  ask  your 
mistress  to  let  you  off.  Keep  the  children  with 
you.  I'll  go  home  instead  of  going  to  the  wine- 
shop. I  swear  it.  .  .  .'  And  then  he  said  besides : 
'Stop  at  the  shoemaker's.  .  .  .'  It  wasn't  a  joke. 
He  had  ordered  his  army  shoes!  It  is  all  just 
like  my  Anthime,  Madame !" 


To  Arms!  153 

She  untied  the  strings  of  her  apron  and  folded 
it  carefully. 

"I  paid  the  washerwoman's  bill.  She  gave  me 
a  new  five-franc  bill  for  change.  The  coarse  salt 
is  almost  out.  I  bought  three  kilos  ahead.  .  .  . 
Until  to-morrow,  Madame!  If  Madame  could 
force  herself  to  eat  a  little;  this  is  not  the  time 
to  be  sick.  Women  will  have  to  work  when  the 
men  are  gone.  It  is  wrong  to  cry.  That  weak- 
ens the  nerves.  We  mustn't  discourage  the  men. 
They  know  very  well  that  we  are  suffering! 
They  must  revenge  us  on  the  Prussians !" 


XII 

A  FTER  six  o'clock  the  street  belonged  to  the 
•*  •*•  children. 

The  agony  which  enfolded  the  city  still  spared 
their  buoyant  spirits.  No  more  concierges  were 
sitting  on  the  door-steps  of  their  houses  as  if  they 
were  benevolent  onlookers;  no  more  tradesmen 
too  anxious  to  drive  away  wandering  boys  and 
intrusive  dogs  by  threats  and  invectives.  A  mys- 
terious power  divided  the  grown  people  from 
the  children  who  lived  by  themselves  with  their 
little  joys  and  little  griefs.  Free,  the  boys  hop- 
ping with  one  foot  on  the  hop-scotch  squares  en- 
larged their  kingdom.  They  shoved  their  quoits  of 
round  flint  from  house  number  32  to  the  first 
boxes  of  the  Gouge  grocery.  Farther  on,  the  lit- 
tle girls  turned  their  rope,  singing.  On  one  of  the 
benches  of  the  circular  Place  in  the  distance,  two 
young  people — Daphnis  and  Chloe  of  the  suburbs 

154 


To  Arms!  155 

— sat  close  together  talking  softly,  a  tableau  of 
the  eternal  idyll. 

At  half-past  six  the  rascals  gathered  their 
quoits  and,  for  sport,  hit  the  fence  covered  with 
notices.  The  manifesto  of  the  Socialist  candidate 
received  the  largest  number  of  missiles,  but  that 
of  the  Radical  candidate,  of  which  there  were  still 
some  scraps,  served  as  a  trophy  for  the  assailants. 
The  discolored  paper  was  torn  away  in  tatters 
and  rolled  into  balls.  These  they  threw  into  the 
stone-cutter's  yard,  to  excite  the  fury  of  the  ma- 
sons, a  fury  which  the  little  brats  waited  for  with 
delicious  terror.  But  the  workmen  were  not  an- 
noyed. Dragging  their  shoes,  white  with  plaster, 
they  emerged  without  noticing  the  hurried  flight 
and  fear  of  the  scattering  gamins.  They  were 
thoughtful  and  spoke  seriously,  and  the  strong 
wine  of  the  phrases  of  the  demagogue  did  not 
seem  to  mount  to  their  brains  any  longer. 

The  oldest,  son  of  one  who  had  made  the  com- 
mune (of  1871),  told  about  the  war,  the  siege, 
the  insurrection,  Trochu,  Thiers  and  the  men  of 
Versailles,  as  seen  by  his  childish  eyes. 


156  To  Arms! 

He  said : 

"No,  it's  not  the  same  time  any  more  nor  the 
same  thing.  The  Empire  wanted  the  war,  but 
to-day,  who  wishes  it"?  ...  Neither  you  nor  I, 
nor  any  of  the  French.  .  .  .  You  speak  of  the 
capitalists'?  .  .  .  They  must  ascertain  if  it  is  for 
their  interest,  now.  ...  In  Germany,  yes,  they 
go  with  the  militarist  Prussians.  They  are  re- 
sponsible to  the  international  proletariat.  But  in 
France,  this  time,  they  were  all  agreed  in  wishing 
to  remain  at  peace.  .  .  ." 

"On  the  condition  that  they  should  not  be  wor- 
ried every  two  or  three  years,"  said  one  of  the 
younger  men.  .  .  . 

The  man  who  had  called  for  the  intervention  of 
Jaures,  in  the  morning,  returned  to  his  idea.  He 
still  hoped  that  the  voice  of  the  great  French 
leader  would  find  an  echo  in  Berlin,  and  he  im- 
agined enormous  meetings  in  the  industrial  towns 
of  Germany,  the  "Social  Democrats"  uniting  all 
the  pacific  forces  of  labor  against  military  force. 
He  saw  the  chiefs  of  the  German  Socialist  party 
braving  imprisonment  to  affirm  their  fidelity  to  its 


To  Arms!  157 

principles;  Liebknecht  and  Rosa  Luxembourg,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  frontier,  extending  their  fra- 
ternal hands  to  Jean  Jaures.  Also,  the  German 
people  rising  in  revolt  and  the  Hohenzollern 
dynasty  falling  in  the  terrible  onset  of  revolu- 
tion, like  the  Bourbons  in  France  in  1792. 

These  dreams,  rambling  in  nothingness,  did 
not  hold  the  attention  of  the  workmen  any  more. 
They  were  not  certain  that  the  German  comrades 
had  said  their  last  word;  they  expected  some- 
thing more  from  them :  a  manifestation,  a  decisive 
step.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  were  not  all  "Judases 
and  unclean  toad-eaters.  .  .  ."  Perhaps  also 
they  were  not  free  to  talk  and  act !  But,  already, 
the  French  no  longer  counted  on  their  fraternal 
support,  for  before  being  proletarian,  before  be- 
ing Socialists,  these  people  were  Germans  and 
gloried  in  being  so.  ... 

"And  we're,  first  of  all,  French." 

That  was  all  simple.  Each  one  resumed  his 
place  in  order. 

There  was  no  more  discussion  or  disagreement 
possible.  The  Germans,  here;  the  French,  there. 


158  To  Arms! 

And  then,  they  demanded  why  the  government 
allowed  William  leisure  to  prepare  his  army.  .  .  . 
State  of  war,  call  of  reservists,  requisitions,  forti- 
fying of  places,  routes  to  the  frontier  barred,  that 
was  mobilisation,  that  thing  with  the  difficult 
name — Kriegeszustand — that  the  evening  jour- 
nals announced.  .  .  . 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  is  not  exactly 
mobilisation.  .  .  ." 

The  others  protested.  They  were  not  blind  nor 
idiotic.  ...  In  the  government's  place,  they 
would  have  mobilised  that  very  day.  .  .  . 

"Patience!"  repeated  the  old  workman.  .  .  . 
"Patience!  ...  It  will  be  to-morrow  or  day 
after  to-morrow,  the  great  departure.  .  .  .  You 
are  in  a  great  hurry!  .  .  .  War  is  not  yet  de- 
clared. .  .  ." 

"What  must  happen  to  make  you  believe  it*? 
The  Uhlans  at  Luneville?" 

"A  Zeppelin  over  Paris?" 

The  group  in  blouses  and  workingmen's  coats, 
the  color  of  blue  sandstone  and  cement,  divided 
on  the  corner  of  the  Place.  Then  the  little  girls 


To  Arms!  159 

became  mistresses  of  the  street,  and  they  in- 
stalled themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway, 
those  who  turned  the  rope  and  those  who  jumped, 
intent  and  breathless.  All  three  sang  the  lines 
which  accompany,  according  to  rite,  the  swinging 
and  retarding  of  the  rope.  There  was  a  singular 
sadness  in  the  contrast  between  the  shrill  voices 
and  the  solemn  and  drawling  song: 

Ah!  la  salade! 
Quand  elle  poussera, 
On  la  cueillera 
On  la  manger  a! 

In  one  of  the  small  houses  a  window  opened. 
An  old  woman  in  a  cap  leaned  out : 

"Be  quiet,  children!  This  is  no  time  to  sing 
.  .  .  and  you,  Lucie,  come  up!  The  soup  is 
ready." 

Lucie  dropped  the  red  wooden  handle  of  the 
rope  she  was  holding  and  began  to  run,  clapping 
her  hands  for  the  sole  joy  of  exercising  her  slim 
body  and  making  a  noise. 

She  cried: 


160  To  Arms! 

"Yes,    Grandmother!  .  .  .  Yes,    Grandmoth- 


er!" 


The  two  other  children,  vexed,  watched  their 
companion  as  she  ran  .  .  .  Regretfully,  they 
rolled  the  rope  as  they  walked,  very  well  behaved, 
very  much  alike  in  spite  of  their  unequal  height, 
with  their  braids  which  hung  on  their  narrow 
shoulders,  their  school-girl  aprons  and  their  legs 
in  black  stockings.  A  porter  passed  them.  Ma- 
dame Moriceau,  returning  from  church,  smiled 
at  them.  A  flower-seller,  carrying  a  basket  con- 
taining full-blown  fading  roses,  went  the  length 
of  the  street,  seeking  a  last  customer.  Then  a 
bell  rang.  The  birds  called  to  each  other  in  the 
thick  dark  branches.  And  the  little  street  passed 
into  twilight. 

Now,  the  fires  were  lighted  in  the  houses  foi 
family  dinner,  as  they  had  been  lighted  in  the 
morning,  for  the  first  meal.  The  people  returned, 
in  an  opposite  direction,  by  the  same  route  which 
they  had  taken  with  different  thoughts,  and  one 
by  one,  Madame  Miton  saw  the  Abbe  Moriceau, 


To  Arms!  161 

and  Monsieur  Lepoultre  and  Alexandre  Frechette 
and  his  friend  come  back.  The  shops  closed  one 
after  another.  The  men  had  finished  their  usual 
work;  the  women  had  completed  their  household 
and  maternal  tasks ;  the  children  had  played ;  and 
this  Friday  which  ended  in  a  gloomy  twilight  had 
been  for  the  little  street  and  its  inhabitants  a 
day  almost  like  other  days  in  appearance.  Pro- 
logue to  a  great  drama,  it  still  left  to  separate 
lives,  a  rhythm  that  was  scarcely  changed.  Each 
of  these  interminable  hours  had  increased  the 
anxious  emotions  in  all  spirits,  the  emotion  which 
Simone  Davesnes  had  seen 'in  the  solemn  silence 
and  the  stupor  of  the  afternoon  and  which  was 
expressed  afterwards  in  discreet  words  and  tears. 
But  it  was  only  emotion,  passive  and  sorrowful, 
because  it  was  still  mixed  with  uncertainty,  and 
which,  in  the  face  of  the  accomplished  fact,  would 
change  its  nature  and  pass  into  action. 

As  on  other  evenings,  Simone  waited  for  Fran- 
gois  in  the  grey  wood  salon  where  the  presence 
that  she  loved  was  always  before  her  eyes.  If  the 
room,  like  delicate  porcelain,  spoke  entirely  of 


162  To  Arms! 

Simone,  the  salon,  transformed  into  a  working 
den,  represented  Frangois.  Feminine  care  was  re- 
vealed in  it  in  certain  details;  a  bouquet  in  a 
grey-blue  vase,  a  square  of  damask  on  a  round 
table,  a  large  shade  of  tea-rose  silk  veiled  with 
lace  and  the  little  round  arm-chair,  with  its  tapes- 
try of  ribbons  and  embroidered  flowers,  near  a 
work-box  of  mahogany.  But  the  feminine  ele- 
ment was  secondary.  It  all  revealed,  primarily, 
the  character,  the  thoughts  and  the  work  of  the 
man. 

Two  open  bookcases  flanked  the  mantelpiece 
which  had  for  its  sole  ornaments  a  beautiful  cast 
of  Colleone  and  old  Dutch  candelabra.  A  mas- 
sive pier-table  between  the  windows  held  piles  of 
magazines,  some  books  and  some  ancient  weapons. 
A  writing  table  loaded  with  papers  and  pam- 
phlets, occupied  the  centre  of  the  room.  Near  the 
little  electric  lamp  shaded  with  green  silk,  there 
was  a  small  reproduction  of  the  Pompeian  Vic- 
tory. Frangois  loved  this  statuette,  upright  on 
the  globe  which  it  touched  with  one  foot,  and 
slender,  with  its  robe  spread  out  like  a  green 


To  Arms!  163 

bronze  sail.  Divine  butterfly  of  the  Greek  world, 
Psyche  of  battles !  It  reminded  him  of  the  lovely 
aeroplanes  which  would  perhaps  depart  with  her 
some  day,  in  the  invisible  wake  of  her  flight. 

On  the  wall  there  were  no  affected  little  pic- 
tures; but  engravings  of  the  l8th  century,  two 
beautiful  photographs  representing  The  Marseil- 
laise on  the  Barricades,  by  Delacroix  and  Saint 
Genevieve  Watching  Over  Paris>  by  Puvis  de 
Chavannes.  Finally,  in  the  place  of  honor,  were 
portraits  of  the  great-grandparents  of  Davesnes, 
conscientious  but  mediocre  pastels  which  must 
have  been  very  good  likenesses.  Major  Davesnes, 
a  retired  officer,  still  young,  wearing  in  the  but- 
tonhole of  his  frock  coat  the  rosette  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor,  had  all  the  features  of  Frangois,  but 
more  of  roughness  and  melancholy.  Theresine 
Davesnes,  his  wife,  twenty-eight  years  old,  was 
blonde,  quite  pretty,  wearing  a  white  dress,  a  red 
fichu  and  a  cap  with  barbes  of  Alengon  lace. 
These  two  honest  faces,  which  the  artist  had  made 
slightly  formal  and  dignified,  gave  to  the  Parisian 
apartment,  an  old-time  fragrance  of  the  country. 


1 64  To  Arms! 

Underneath,  yellowing  photographs  and  minia- 
tures framed  in  black  wood  formed  a  little  mu- 
seum of  souvenirs  where  the  parents  of  Simone 
and  of  Frangois  fraternised.  And  on  the  pier- 
table,  and  the  round  table,  were  other  inscribed 
likenesses,  comrades  of  Frangois,  and  Simone's 
father — Captain  Bouvet — in  his  Colonial  uni- 
form. Francois  Davesnes's  study  would  have 
seemed  modest  and  almost  poor,  compared  to  the 
Raynauds'  luxurious  quarters,  but  its  simplicity 
was  not  without  elegance  and  nothing  seemed  ar- 
tificial. Everything  was  solid  and  real,  and  was 
all  in  accordance  with  the  real  taste  of  those  who 
lived  there  and  not  in  a  style  dictated  by  fashion. 
Everything  was  pleasing  through  a  sort  of  in- 
trepid honesty  which  made  no  pretence  of  daz- 
zling any  one  and  which  was  like  Frangois  in  his 
ideas  and  acts,  making  a  material  frame  for  his 
daily  life.  This  eager  and  serious  man,  an  ex- 
treme realist  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  had 
never  been  duped  by  glittering  show  and  he  was 
irritated  by  all  that  seemed  bluff,  pretension,  dis- 
simulation and  falsehood.  Frangois  Davesnes 


To  Arms!  165 

never  gave  big  names  to  little  things.  No  man 
cared  more  than  he  for  the  esteem  of  his  friends, 
no  one  less  for  the  admiration  of  the  world  in  gen- 
eral. The  guiding  rules  of  his  life  were  simple: 
to  be  himself,  to  know  what  he  ought  to  do,  to 
will  with  an  untiring  energy  and  to  enrich  the 
humblest  work  with  a  desire  for  perfection  which 
gives  it  beauty.  This  was  the  man  in  his  so- 
cial and  moral  life,  in  his  sentiments  and  affec- 
tions. This  is  what  he  was  in  his  love.  The  wom- 
an whom  he  had  chosen  could  see  into  the  depths 
of  his  eyes  as  into  the  depths  of  his  thoughts; 
all  was  clear  and  pure  there.  She  could  lean  on 
an  arm  that  never  tired,  and  sleep  in  peace  on  a 
heart  faithful  to  its  last  throb. 

Simone  relived  the  evenings  she  had  passed  in 
this  same  room,  under  the  lamp,  when  she  never 
wearied  of  questioning  Francois  about  every  kind 
of  thing,  and  listening  with  the  nai've  attention  of 
a  woman  in  love  who  longs  to  absorb  the  soul  of 
her  lover  and  not  to  think  of  anything  that  does 
not  concern  him.  Truly  he  had  been  her  teacher 


166  To  Arms! 

and  inspirer.  He  had  enlarged  her  intellectual  hori- 
zon and  stimulated  in  her  the  noble  curiosity  which 
so  many  gracious  feminine  spirits  lack;  he  had 
shared  his  thoughts  and  his  projects  with  her; 
he  had  saved  her  from  the  routine  and  the  apathy 
which  sometimes  blight  the  happiness  of  mar- 
riage. 

She  said  to  herself: 

"Since  I  owe  everything  to  him,  since  I  am  his 
work,  and  as  God  himself  desired  it,  the  bone  of 
his  bone,  and  the  flesh  of  his  flesh,  he  must  recog- 
nize his  most  profound  thoughts  in  me,  his  living 
conscience;  his  soul  must  feel  before  mine  as  be- 
fore a  mirror;  my  courage  must  equal  his  and  he 
must  feel  that  I  am  one  with  him,  as  I  have  never 
been,  even  in  the  moment  which  separates  us." 

She  said  this  to  herself,  in  order  not  to  be  un- 
expectedly overwhelmed  by  her  weakness;  and, 
alone  in  the  salon  where  the  night  was  gathering 
about  her,  she  forced  herself  to  imagine,  to  accept 
the  terrible  anguish.  But  she  wrung  her  hands 
as  they  lay  upon  her  knee,  and  at  times  a  dull 
cry  rose  to  her  lips. 


XIII 

clock  struck  half-past  eight.  The  win- 
dows  were  no  more  than  bluish  rectangles  in 
the  misty  darkness  where  the  furniture  was  dimly 
outlined.  Simone,  exhausted,  stretched  herself  out 
on  a  sofa  covered  with  yellow  velvet,  which  occu- 
pied the  largest  panel  of  the  salon.  Lost  among 
the  cushions,  she  cried  a  long  time,  and  ended  by 
falling  asleep,  her  cheek  on  her  little  wet  hand- 
kerchief. 

An  indefinable  sensation  slowly  mingled  with 
the  torpor  of  sleep.  Something  very  sweet, 
which  Simone  did  not  experience  by  material  con- 
tact, passed  over  her,  lighter  than  the  gentlest 
kiss,  more  distant  than  an  impalpable  caress, 
something  as  vague  as  a  thought  of  love  become 
perceptible  to  the  senses.  The  young  woman 
turned  her  head;  her  lips  parted,  and,  through 
her  opening  eyelids  she  saw,  she  divined  rather, 

that  FranQois  was  sitting  close  to  her. 

167 


168  Jo  Arms! 

She  whispered: 

"Oh !  you  were  here !  .  .  .  You  have  been  here 
a  long  time !  .  .  .  I  think  that  I  have  been  asleep. 
...  It  is  not  my  fault.  ...  I  was  tired.  .  .  . 
It  was  so  sad,  so  sad  to  wait  for  you.  .  .  .  Why 
didn't  you  waken  me  at  once*?  .  .  ." 

"I  was  watching  you,  dearest." 

"I  felt  your  eyes  plainly." 

She  raised  herself  and  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck: 

"You  are  here!  .  .  .  You  are  here!  .  .  ." 

She  repeated  these  words,  as  if  to  persuade  her- 
self that  she  was  not  asleep,  that  she  was  not 
dreaming,  that  her  arms  were  around  the  one  she 
loved,  clinging  to  him  and  kissing  him  with  all 
her  might: 

"You  were  here!" 

"My  Simone !  You  can  touch  me  and  cling  to 
me!  ...  I  am  here,  living  and  loving.  -.  .  . 
But  what  is  the  matter?" 

With  a  smile  which  she  forced  to  seem  gay, 
she  said,  as  she  sometimes  did,  in  their  loving  dia- 
logues, jokingly: 


To  Arms!  169 

"The  matter  is  that  I  have  you." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her. 
Then,  she  feared  that  she  was  about  to  cry  again, 
but  she  controlled  herself. 

"I  came  in  without  noise  a  short  time  ago.  You 
were  resting,  stretched  out,  and  I  could  hardly 
see  you  because  of  the  cushions.  What  a  little, 
little  thing  you  were!  I  touched  your  cheek;  I 
found  your  handkerchief,  still  wet,  and  I  under- 
stood that  you  had  not  been  a  very  reasonable 
woman.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  way  that  I  could 
be  angry,  was  there?  .  .  .  Well,  I  sat  down  by 
your  side.  I  watched  for  you  to  waken  while  I 
gazed  at  you,  thinking  about  ourselves,  about  our 
love,  of  the  happiness  you  have  given  me.  .  .  . 
You  slept.  You  did  not  see  me.  ...  It  was 
sweet." 

Their  lips  met.     Simone  thought: 

"He,  too,  he  is  agitated.  He  too  has  had  his 
moment  of  weakness,  when  I  couldn't  see 
him.  .  .  ." 

She  realised  suddenly  that  it  was  after  nine 
o'clock. 


170  To  Arms! 

"You  poor  dear,  you  must  be  dying  with  hun- 
ger, and  I  have  such  a  light  dinner  to  offer  you! 
Marie  left  me  to  be  with  her  Anthime.  .  .  .  We 
must  serve  ourselves.  To  the  war  in  war  fash- 
ion! .  .  ." 

"It  is  surely  the  time  to  say  so." 

She  rose,  dizzy  from  poor  sleep.  Her  white 
waist  was  rumpled.  With  an  uncertain  move- 
ment, she  fastened  the  shell  pins  in  the  silken  dis- 
order of  her  hair. 

FranQois  preceded  her  and  lighted  the  hanging 
lamp  in  the  dining-room.  The  orange  silk  of  the 
centre  globe,  suspended  by  a  chain,  coloured  the 
light  underneath.  On  the  table  the  cold  repast 
was  ready.  The  couple  sat  opposite  facing  one 
another,  and  Simone  began  to  rehearse  her  visit 
to  the  Raynauds  and  her  return  by  the  Boulevards 
with  Bertrand  de  Gardave. 

"It  is  curious !"  said  Frangois,  "the  news  which 
has  excited  Paris,  in  the  way  you  have  told  me, 
has  left  us  quite  calm.  However,  we  understand 
its  seriousness ;  but  each  one  thinks  of  his  task  and 
works  furiously  over  it.  ...  The  atmosphere  o/ 


To  Arms!  171 

the  factory  was  already  like  barracks  oran  arsenal, 
and  even  the  relation  between  engineers  and 
workers  had  changed  its  character.  There  was 
more  tacit  cordiality  and  more  discipline.  This 
difference,  noticeable  yesterday,  was  marked  to- 
day. .  .  .  But  what  is  the  matter,  Simone;  you 
are  not  eating  anything*?" 

He  ate,  without  apology,  for  he  had  the  tem- 
perament of  men  who  keep,  in  difficult  hours,  the 
equilibrium  of  all  their  functions  and  faculties. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  able,  at  will, 
to  go  without  sleep  or  nourishment  and  continue 
their  work,  but  who  dine  with  appetite  in  bom- 
barded houses,  and  sleep  peacefully,  wrapped  in 
their  coats  or  on  the  bare  earth,  while  the  bullets 
whistle  around  them. 

"How  ill  you  look,  Simone !  .  .  .  Are  you  suf- 
fering? ...  Ah!  little  heart,  too  tender,  little 
head,  terrified  by  a  word!  How  much  reason  I 
have  to  be  angry  with  you,  to-day!  Come,  Si- 
mone, cheer  up!  Don't  think  of  calamities  that 
are  the  secret  of  the  future.  The  present  hour  is 
ours;  it  is  solemn  and  beautiful.  Let  us  live  it 


172  To  Arms! 

fully.  I  have  worked  hard  and  my  work,  in  its 
modest  way,  has  been  of  service  to  the  country. 
I  have  seen  brave  men,  ready  to  do  their  duty.  I 
have  not  heard  a  discordant  word.  I  believe  that 
all  of  our  people  are  courageous  and  ready  on  the 
eve  of  war.  .  .  .  And  here  I  am  again  for  a  night 
at  home,  with  you.  Why  should  I  be  sad"?  I  am 
not.  I  feel  a  strange  sort  of  happiness,  without 
joy,  and  without  gaiety,  but  profound,  intense, 
like  an  extension  of  life.  .  .  ." 

Simone  responded: 

"It  is  a  man's  feeling,  Frangois.  I  do  not  ex- 
perience it.  It  is  with  difficulty  that  I  am  able  to 
understand  it.  This  word:  War!  has  not  the 
same  meaning  in  our  minds  and  you  do  not  want 
me  to  tremble  when  I  hear  it.  The  essential  thing 
is  that  you  do  not  tremble." 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  about  that.  I  am  re- 
liable as  far  as  that  goes,"  he  said,  smiling. 

She  was  hurt  because  he  smiled.  And  why? 
When  she  forced  herself  to  comprehend  his  feel- 
ing of  happiness  which  he  admitted,  boldly,  did 


To  Arms!  173 

he  not  understand  her  grief  and  her  impotence 
as  a  woman? 

But  she  recalled  suddenly  that  he  had  passed 
a  long  moment  watching  her,  sleeping,  and  that 
he  had  waited,  all  alone,  in  the  twilight  .  .  .  and 
she  was  consoled. 

He  left  the  dining-room,  because  an  unex- 
pected visitor  rang  the  bell.  It  was  Maxime  Ray- 
naud. 

He  excused  himself  for  arriving  in  this  way. 

"I  am  bringing  pieces  of  news,  one  of  which 
will  surprise  you,  at  least,"  he  said,  as  he  entered 
the  salon  where  Simone  was  lighting  the  lamps. 
"First,  Nicolette  received,  about  seven  o'clock,  a 
despatch  from  Jean,  sent  on  his  journey.  My 
brother  will  be  in  Paris  to-morrow.  Nicolette 
asks  you  both  to  dine  with  her  en  famille.  She 
has  invited  the  Gardaves  too.  It  will  perhaps 
be  our  last  reunion,  in  1914." 

Frangois  accepted : 

"I  should  be  free  to-morrow  afternoon,  since 
we  have  an  'English  week,'  with  a  holiday  on 
Saturday,  but  doubtless  I  shall  be  obliged  to  re- 


174  To  Arms! 

turn  to  the  factory  during  the  day.  In  any  case, 
count  on  us  for  dinner.  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
see  your  parents  again  and  to  take  the  hand  of 
my  old  friend.  Now,  sit  down  and  tell  us  the 
rest." 

Maxime  wiped  his  forehead,  moist  with  per- 
spiration. 

"My  friend,  a  frightful  thing  has  just  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  Jaures  has  been  assassinated." 

"Jaures  ?' 

"Scarcely  an  hour  ago." 

"Are  you  sure  that  it  is  not  a  false  rumor*? 
Day  before  yesterday  it  was  announced  in  Paris 
that  Caillaux  was  assassinated !  .  .  ." 

The  scepticism  of  Francois  irritated  Maxime. 

"I  tell  you  that  Jaures  has  been  assassinated, 
this  evening,  in  a  cafe  of  the  Rue  du  Croissant. 
...  I  heard  it  from  people  who  came  to  the 
Boulevard  Montmartre.  They  gave  the  details: 
Jaures  was  sitting  in  the  cafe,  with  his  back  to 
the  window,  which  some  one  had  left  open  be* 
cause  of  the  heat.  He  had  around  him  his 
friends,  editors  of  I'Humanite.  The  murderer  ap- 


To  Arms!  175 

preached  the  window  and  he  was  ab'le  to  push 
aside  a  little  blind  and  to  fire,  point-blank,  two 
shots  of  his  revolver.  Jaures  received  two  bul- 
lets in  the  neck.  Ten  minutes  later  he  was  dead. 
.  .  .  This  is  what  the  conversations  of  passers-by 
have  told  me,  brutally.  I  wanted  to  run  to  the 
bureau  of  I'Humanite  to  get  precise  information, 
but  I  preferred  to  come  here  first  because  I  had  ' 
promised  Nicolette.  It  is  already  very  late. 
After  ten  o'clock.  You  will  excuse  me?" 

"I  thank  you  for  coming,  Maxime,  and  I  share 
your  emotion.  I  know  how  you  loved  Jaures. 
.  .  .  But  what  was  the  cause  of  this  stupid  and 
atrocious  crime?  .  .  .  What  do  you  think?  .  .  . 
What  do  you  suspect?  .  .  .  Has  the  assassin 
been  arrested?  .  .  ." 

"They  have  locked  him  up.  The  crowd  threw 
itself  upon  him.  ...  I  do  not  know  any  more. 
...  I  am  cruelly  affected  by  this  death,  my  dear 
Francois,  and  my  mind  is  filled  with  grief.  .  .  . 
Whether  the  criminal  is  a  political  enemy  or  a 
madman  makes  little  difference  at  this  moment! 
To-morrow  the  inquest  will  inform  us.  This 


176  To  Arms! 

evening  my  thoughts  are  filled  with  him  who 
formerly  honored  me  with  his  friendship, 
whose  noble  heart  no  longer  beats,  whose  great 
voice  is  gone.  Even  his  adversaries,  who  esteemed 
him  as  they  opposed  him,  weep  with  us.  What 
sorrow  for  his  friends !  What  a  loss  for  France ! 
He  hated  war;  he  had  done  everything  to  divert 
or  retard  it,  even  at  price  of  severe  personal  loss 
and  abominable  calumnies.  People  did  not  al- 
ways understand  his  intentions.  He  himself  was 
sometimes  mistaken  through  excess  of  generosity. 
But  at  this  moment  I  know  he  accepted,  as  we 
do,  the  terrible  necessity  of  defence  by  arms.  This 
pacific  man  would  have  been  to-morrow  a  mar- 
vellous influence,  the  living  clarion  of  the  nation. 
He  is  dead.  Who  will  replace  him'?" 

Maxime  Raynaud  had  spoken  these  words  with 
such  vehemence  that  his  emotion  affected  Simone 
and  Frangois.  All  three  remained  speechless  an 
instant,  filled  with  horror,  as  if  they  had  seen  be- 
fore them  the  great  tribune  all  bleeding,  the  first 
victim  fallen  on  the  threshold  of  the  war. 

But  while  the  woman  was  moved  to  pity  over 


To  Arms!  177 

a  noble  life  cut  short,  and  Maxime  pictured  the 
robust  and  heavy  man,  with  strong  hands,  with 
such  young  blue  eyes  set  in  a  heavy  face,  Frangois 
no  longer  saw  the  powerful  individuality  of  the 
dead  man.  Jaures,  the  assassination  of  Jaures, 
the  personality  of  the  murderer,  the  motives,  the 
circumstances,  the  effect  of  the  crime — he  consid- 
ered them  simply  as  a  preliminary  episode  to  the 
drama  which  had  for  actors  not  only  men,  nor 
even  great  men,  but  nations. 

He  asked,  as  if  speaking  to  himself: 
"The  causes'?  It  is  impossible  to  determine 
them.  .  .  .  What  political  enemy  had  Jaures, 
unless  he  were  mad,  who  would  have  dared  to 
commit  this  act,  useless  to  his  party,  odious  to 
all  the  world  and  calculated  to  serve  the  German 
interests  by  provoking  more  strife  among  the 
French*?  .  „  .  The  more  I  reflect,  the  more  I  am 
persuaded  that  it  is  the  act  of  an  isolated  mad- 
man, or  perhaps  .  .  .  Find  out  who  could  profit 
by  the  crime!  .  .  .  But  we  lack  the  necessary 
facts  to  judge.  We  must  wait  for  the  inquest." 
"Certainly,"  said  Maxime.  "We  have  lived 


178  To  Arms! 

for  several  days  in  a  state  of  nervous  tension  that 
the  mentally  unbalanced  could  not  endure  with- 
out accident. 

Simone  feared  the  passions  of  the  mob,  riots,    , 
or  some  kind  of  revolution.     Frangois  protested 
that  he  had  confidence  in  the  underlying  good 
sense  of  the  people. 

"See!"  he  said.  "Wasn't  Paris  seething  day 
before  yesterday?  The  people  were  rioting  on  the 
Boulevard.  The  Royalists  and  the  Syndicalists 
insulted  each  other  like  the  warriors  of  Homer  be- 
fore coming  to  blows.  In  forty-eight  hours  quiet 
has  come.  Who  thinks  about  the  Caillaux  affair? 
The  French,  instead  of  being  hypnotised  by  the 
Palais  de  Justice  and  the  Palais-Bourbon,  turn 
their  eyes  towards  the  east.  There  are  no  more 
Royalists  or  Syndicalists;  there  are  only  French 
soldiers.  Instead  of  abusing  each  other,  the  par- 
ties will  become  reconciled  over  the  coffin  of 
Jaures." 

"It  will  be  the  last  service  he  will  render  to 
the  country,"  said  Maxime. 

"And  the  greatest." 


To  Arms!  i?9 

"He  would  have  done  much  more.  He  could 
have  spoken  to  the  heart  of  France  and  the  na- 
tion would  have  followed  him  wholly." 

"France  should  not  follow  any  one.  She  will 
go  where  it  is  her  duty  to  go  and  with  no  other 
leader  but  the  Commander-in-Chief.  The  poli- 
ticians have  gabbled  enough.  When  our  diplo- 
mats have  had  their  final  conversation  the  can- 
non will  be  the  orator,  the  fine  '75;  a  friend  of 
mine  whose  acquaintance  I  shall  be  charmed  to 
renew." 

The  Doctor  tried  to  prove  that  the  politicians 
were  a  torment,  but  that  one  could  not  get  along 
without  them.  He  recalled  the  Convention  and 
the  representatives  of  the  people  in  the  armies. 
In  his  heart,  he  had  remnants  of  prejudices  which 
made  him  fear  the  predominance  of  the  military 
men,  as  the  military  men  dreaded  the  predomi- 
nance of  lawyers  and  professors.  And  that  made 
Frangois  smile. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "we  sha'n't  quarrel  as 
we  did  during  the  elections  in  May  when  I  ar- 
gued against  you  for  the  three  years'  law.  My 


i8o  To  Arms! 

military  profession  makes  it  necessary  for  me  to 
keep  aloof  from  politics,  but  I  have  my  own  opin- 
ions as  well  as  you.  .  .  .  You  have  thought 
sometimes  that  I  was  a  reactionary,  while  certain 
of  my  comrades  have  reproached  me  because  I 
had  'advanced'  ideas.  The  truth  is  that  I  am 
equally  indifferent  to  the  church  and  to  Social- 
ism, as  impartial  as  possible,  a  friend  of  law  and 
order,  tolerant  by  nature  and  if  one  may  asso- 
ciate the  words :  passionately  moderate.  But  first 
of  all  I  am  French,  and  in  front  of  the  enemy 
every  man  of  my  race  who  goes  to  fight  with  me 
is  my  brother,  and  I  do  not  ask  how  he  has  voted, 
whether  he  received  the  sacrament  at  Easter, 
whether  he  is  affiliated  with  a  red  syndicate  or 
if  he  aspires  to  restore  the  monarchy.  Let  us 
unite  to  stop  the  Germans  on  our  frontiers  and 
re-establish  peace  in  Europe.  Let  us  keep  them 
from  burning  our  ancestral  home,  and  later,  the 
fire  extinguished,  we  can  talk  about  the  way  of 
regulating  it  all.  .  .  .  It  would  be  easy,  perhaps, 
this  evening,  to  find  disagreeable  truths  to  tell 
about  such  and  such  friends  of  yours,  to  prove 


To  Arms!  181 

the  insufficiency  of  our  military  preparations  and 
to  accuse  the  men  responsible  for  it.  It  is  neither 
my  role  nor  my  desire.  Events  will  prove 
whether  certain  criticisms  were  well  founded,  and 
I  hope  that  the  lessons  of  experience  will  be  im- 
mediately useful.  But  first,  let  us  unite  in  a 
general  right  desire  to  do,  each  one,  without  vain 
words,  his  particular  task.  To-morrow,  you  will 
wear  the  uniform  of  Assistant-Surgeon  and  I  shall 
become  Lieutenant  Davesnes  again.  Around  us 
will  be  the  cultivated  and  ignorant,  infidels  and 
bigots,  scholars,  artists  and  even  members  of  par- 
liament. In  fighting  side  by  side,  we  shall  learn 
to  know  each  other,  which  will  help  us  to  under- 
stand each  other,  and  this  will  not  be  the  smallest 
benefit  of  the  war  which  the  arming  of  the  nation 
is  preparing  for  the  future,  a  united  nation." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Maxime,  "and  Simone 
will  bear  witness  that  I  expressed  to-day,  to  my 
sister-in-law,  a  feeling  similar  to  yours.  And 
young  Gardave  himself,  if  he  had  been  there, 
would  not  have  contradicted  anything,  wholly 
Catholic  and  Royalist  as  he  is.  ...  We  feel  al- 


1 82  To  Arms! 

ready  throughout  the  country  the  fraternity  of 
the  race.  This  is  what  will  surprise  and  deceive 
the  Germans." 

"They  have  made  an  error  in  psychology  and 
it  will  not  be  the  last.  They  are  all  ready  to 
find  bad  conditions  in  Paris;  in  French  literature, 
improper  books;  in  the  French  woman,  the  little 
cocotte  of  the  comic  papers ;  in  the  French  family, 
the  only  son,  corrupt  from  early  debauches,  alco- 
holic and  tuberculous;  in  the  French  army,  the 
anti-militarists." 

"And  yet,"  said  Maxime,  "in  spite  of  our 
grudges,  we  have  loyally  tried  to  understand 
Germany.  We  have  welcomed  Wagner  in  our 
theatres  in  spite  of  the  claque,  and  inferior  Mu- 
nich painters  have  taken  a  place  in  our  salons 
disproportionate  to  their  merit.  Also  German 
methods  at  the  Sorbonne.  .  .  .  We  have  been 
poisoned  by  Teutonism,  as  a  compensation  for 
that  which  you  call  'our  effort  loyally  to  under- 
stand Germany.'  It  seems  as  if  the  humiliations 
we  have  undergone  had  forced  a  commonplace, 
inelegant  feeling,  reserved  for  simpletons  who 


To  Arms!  183 

joke  on  the  old  themes  of  beer  and  sourkrout! 
.  .  .  But  intellectual  France,  weary  of  hatred, 
went  to  the  school  of  the  conquerors.  What  good 
did  it  do  them*?  .  .  .  Our  admiration  appeared 
to  them  a  sign  of  our  weakness  which  recognised 
their  superiority.  In  the  main,  we  have  nothing 
but  avowed  or  secret  detractors  in  all  Germany, 
while  Germany  has  with  us  some  detractors,  no 
friends,  but  many  admirers. 

"The  Germans  do  not  make  fine  distinctions. 
They  are  not  able  to  understand  us,  even  those 
who  want  to  love  us.  There  are  only  a  few,  but 
there  are  some.  I  have  met  them.  Their  praise 
rings  false  and  also  their  assurances  of  affection, 
and  their  finest  sentiments  end  in  clumsiness.  I 
remember  an  excellent  man,  with  whom  I  spent 
several  months  in  Bavaria  while  I  was  studying 
German.  Because  of  friendship  for  me,  he  tried 
to  find  something  to  praise  in  my  degenerate 
country,  and  he  always  came  around  to  our  wines, 
our  comediennes  and  our  dressmakers.  I  cited,  in 
vain,  certain  phrases  of  Goethe,  who  admired  and 
loved  the  France  of  the  Revolution.  Such  de- 


184  To  Arms! 

pravity  in  a  great  genius  upset  him.  He  did  not 
dwell  on  this  subject  but  began  talking  of  the 
Moulin-Rouge.  Poor  Monsieur  Hermann!  I 
cannot  despise  his  memory,  for  he  was  not  bad. 
He  had  some  traits  of  the  'old  Germany'  that 
has  disappeared.  Peace  to  his  ashes!  Since  his 
death,  at  various  intervals,  I  have  seen  his  three 
sons.  The  oldest  is  an  engineer  in  Frankfort,  the 
second  in  business  in  Berlin  and  the  youngest, 
professor  at  Bonn.  They  are  modern  Germans. 
They  dream  only  of  material  power,  riches  and 
domination.  They  despise  everything  that  is  not 
German.  I  felt  in  them  this  strange  mysticism, 
this  worship  of  force,  almost  lyric  in  its  expres- 
sion, which  has  become  a  mental  disease,  the  meg- 
alomania which  has  seized  all  the  race." 

Francois  had  .risen.  He  walked  the  length  of 
the  room  to  quiet  his  excitement,  and  suddenly  he 
exclaimed  joyously: 

"They  are  more  numerous  than  we  and  more 
formidable,  but  perhaps  less  formidable  than  they 
think.  Their  pride  contains  the  germ  of  their 
deception.  There  is  a  flaw  in  their  steel.  They 


To  Arms!  185 

do  not  know  with  what  vigor  we  shall  all  arise 
against  them.  Ah!  Maxime,  what  a  noble  and 
beautiful  war  this  will  be !  Hurrah  for  the  days 
that  are  coming,  hurrah  for  the  fight,  the  test  and 
victory;  putting  one's  foot  on  a  fallen  enemy, 
what  Is  death  in  the  face  of  such  an  opportunity? 
Our  children  will  envy  us!" 

He  stopped  in  the  luminous  circle  made  by  the 
lamp  and  Simone  noticed  his  extraordinary  re- 
semblance to  the  portrait  of  his  great-grandfather. 
The  highest  emotion  that  could  move  a  man  in  all 
the  fibres  of  his  being,  made  the  essential  charac- 
teristics of  his  race  apparent  in  his  expression,  and 
brought  to  his  spirit  the  hereditary  instinct  of  his 
fighting  ancestors.  He  did  not  look  at  his  wife; 
he  spoke  spontaneously  to  his  friend,  because  he 
was  a  citizen  and  a  soldier,  like  himself,  and  for 
both  of  them  the  words  had  the  same  meaning. 
But  Simone  was  won  by  the  enthusiasm  that 
Frangois — usually  so  reticent  and  sparing  in  his 
words  and  gestures — irradiated  from  his  whole 
person,  as  a  hearth  irradiates  light  and  heat.  And 
she  thought  of  the  other  Davesnes,  soldier  of  the 


i86  To  Arms! 

Republic  and  of  the  Empire,  who,  in  a  frame  of 
dull  gold,  contemplated  his  great-grandson.  She 
saw  him  as  he  had  been  revealed  in  naive  me- 
moirs, kept  in  the  family.  He  had  not  received 
the  scientific  education  which  had  formed  the 
mind  of  Francois ;  he  had  been  a  man  of  his  time, 
a  "patriotic  and  sensible  soldier,"  brought  up  on 
Plutarch  and  Rousseau.  Son  of  a  farmer  of  Sen- 
lis,  instructed  more  or  less  by  a  cure,  his  god- 
father, he  had  secretly  read  Le  Contrat  social  and 
Helo'ise.  Burning  with  a  great  desire  to  liberate 
the  people  and  overthrow  tyrants,  he  was  enrolled 
in  1792  at  the  call  of  an  imperilled  country.  No 
doubt,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Argonne, 
where  he  was  to  rejoin  the  army  of  Dumouriez, 
the  little  sixteen-year-old  soldier  must  have  lived 
through  hours  analogous  to  those  in  which  his 
descendant  was  living  and  his  proud  young  face 
must  have  glowed  with  the  same  flame  that 
burned  in  the  eyes  of  Francois.  Then,  as  to-day, 
after  an  interval  of  more  than  a  century,  the 
people  of  Paris  thought  that  they  heard  the  Ger- 
manic hordes  marching  in  the  Rhine  valley;  then, 


To  Arms!  187 

as  to-day,  there  was  among  the  people  a  Davesnes 
ready  to  give  his  blood  to  France  and  for  the 
ideal  she  represents  in  the  universe. 

The  black  eyes  of  the  portrait  seemed  to  watch 
every  movement  of  Simone  and  to  read  in  her 
mind  the  thoughts  still  sad  and  troubled  which 
she  had  known  how  to  hide  from  Francois.  For- 
gotten by  the  two  men  who  were  imagining  com- 
ing battles,  the  woman  felt  a  mysterious  encour- 
agement in  that  gaze  from  out  of  the  past.  The 
look  said :  "Our  wives  do  not  cry  when  they  fas- 
ten the  tri-colored  cockade  to  our  hats.  The 
tears  of  a  beloved  one  are  heavier  and  tire  us 
more  than  the  knapsack  and  gun.  Victory  loves 
those  who  follow  her  with  a  light  step.  Be  brave ! 
Do  not  cry." 

And  Simone,  pressing  her  heart  with  both 
hands,  heard  in  the  shadow. 


XIV 

THE  first  day  of  August  dawns,  scorching 
and  cloudy,  on  a  Europe  in  arms. 
And  it  is  morning  again  in  the  little  street,  a 
morning  which  already  was  not  like  any  in  the 
past.  The  same  light,  the  same  bird-notes,  the 
same  familiar  sounds,  the  saw  in  the  stone-cut- 
ter's yard,  passing  carts,  the  cries  of  the  vegetable 
sellers  and  the  flic-flac  of  water  on  the  pavements. 
.  .  .  Meanwhile,  in  the  midst  of  these  noises  is 
perceptible,  at  intervals,  a  strange  silence.  .  .  . 
No  one  speaks;  no  one  smiles.  Housewives  are 
absorbed  in  restless  waiting;  the  masons  do  not 
comment  out  loud  on  the  appeal  of  Viviani  to  the 
Parisian  people,  which  has  just  been  posted.  .  .  . 

Citizens,  an  abominable  crime  has  just  been 
committed.  .  .  . 

The  president  of  the  Council  announces  the  as- 
sassination of  Jaures.     He  honors  him  who,  in 

188 


To  Arms!  189 

trying  days,  "upheld  with  his  authority  the  action 
of  the  government,  in  the  interest  of  peace."  He 
asks  for  the  patriotism  of  the  working  classes  and 
that  all  the  population  should  "maintain  quiet 
and  not  bring  disorder  into  the  capital  by  inop- 
portune agitation." 

The  passers-by  read  without  saying  a  word. 
Some  smile  sardonically  and  emphasize  this 
phrase:  "The  assassin  is  arrested.  He  will  be 
funished."  Has  the  recent  trial  shaken  their  con- 
fidence in  the  just  severity  of  the  courts?  .  .  . 
But  the  exhortation  to  be  quiet  seems  useless.  .  .  . 
Who  thinks  of  fomenting  any  disturbance  in 
Paris,  on  this  day  when  the  first  reservists  called 
are  leaving  their  families'? 

They  know  of  some,  in  the  district,  who  have 
received  their  summons  and  directions  and  even 
in  the  little  street  itself,  there  are  Gustave  Mi- 
ton,  and  Auguste,  the  boy  at  the  Gouge  grocery. 
The  first  went  entirely  alone,  swaggering,  having 
refused  the  company  of  his  mother  and  his  fian- 
cee. The  other,  without  any  family  in  Paris,  re- 
ceived a  bag  of  linen  and  provisions  from  Ma- 


190  To  Arms! 

dame  Gouge.  He  wanted  to  kiss  all  the  women 
present  when  he  left  and  promise  them  "Wil- 
liam's moustache." 

Madame  Anselme's  shop  is  open.  Meanwhile 
an  accommodating  neighbor  has  taken  the  place 
of  the  beautiful  stationer  at  the  counter.  She 
confides  to  Marie  Pourat  that  the  proprietress  is 
very  ill.  .  .  .  Last  evening  when  Monsieur 
Pierre  told  her  about  the  assassination  of  Jaures 
she  had  had  a  kind  of  dizziness  in  her  head,  and 
now  she  is  in  bed.  Monsieur  Pierre  could  not 
take  care  of  her  on  account  of  his  examination. 
The  neighbors  offered  to  help. 

"Of  course  we  must  help,  in  times  like  these ! 
Poor  dear  woman !  It  is  apoplexy." 

"Give  her  a  mustard  poultice,"  advises  Marie 
Pourat. 

"Monsieur  Pierre  went  to  the  doctor's  house." 

"The  main  thing  is  for  her  not  to  know  the 
news,  poor  dear  woman!" 

The  news!  Brought  by  the  papers,  it  goes 
from  mouth  to  mouth.  It  causes  words  between 
Monsieur  Lepoultre  and  Monsieur  Delmotte,  one 


To  Arms!  191 

holding  the  murderer  of  Jaures  to  be  mad,  the 
other  for  an  agent  of  Germany.  It  makes  sweet 
Madame  Moriceau  and  Alexandre  Frechette's 
young  friend  cry.  It  upsets  Simone  Davesnes, 
dressing  in  her  blue  room.  .  .  . 

For  it  is  known  now  that  Germany  ever  since 
the  25th  of  July  has  been  arming  her  Western 
fortresses  and  concentrating  her  troops  on  our 
frontiers.  It  is  known  that  French  locomotives 
are  being  kept  in  Lorraine;  that  communications 
are  interrupted;  that  Austria-Hungary  has  de- 
creed general  mobilisation,  and  that  Belgium, 
fearing  for  her  safety,  calls  all  of  her  reserves 
to  arms.  It  is  also  known  that  an  ultimatum  has 
come  addressed  by  Germany  to  Russia  and 
France.  .  .  . 

This  does  not  prevent  the  diplomats  from  par- 
leying, and  Herr  von  Schoen1  pronounces  the 
conversations  reassuring.  He  declares  that  the 
public  is  wrong  in  being  alarmed,  "because  of 
simple  preventive  measures  which  will  not  cause 
any  aggravation  of  the  international  situation." 

*von  Schoen  was  the  German  ambassador  at  Paris. 


192  To  Arms! 

One  knows  all  that  and  one  waits.  .  .  . 

Simone  Davesnes,  when  she  went  out  at  about 
eleven  o'clock  found  no  traces  of  the  gaiety  still 
persisting  in  the  city  the  preceding  morning.  The 
clouds,  still  low  and  greyish  white,  dimmed  the 
light  and  spread  over  Paris  a  still  breeze,  like  a 
breath  from  a  furnace.  The  young  woman  took 
the  subway  and  transferred  at  its  terminus  to  a 
tramway  for  the  suburbs.  She  wanted  to  meet 
Francois  at  the  factory  entrance  and  lunch  with 
him  in  a  little  restaurant.  Perhaps  they  would 
return  together,  for,  according  to  the  English  cus- 
tom, Francois  was  always  free  Saturday  after- 
noon. But  this  week-end  was  .full  of  the  un- 
known and  all  habits  might  be  changed. 

In  the  train  all  the  people  were  reading  the 
papers.  They  chatted  with,  their  neighbors, 
courteously,  on  the  same  subjects  and  felt  a  se- 
cret pleasure  in  noticing  the  unanimity  of  feeling 
and  opinion,  a  pleasure  quite  new  for  a  people 
devoted  to  argument  and  contradiction.  The  fact 
that  they  were  among  French  people  created  ties 


To  Arms!  193 

and  strengthened  their  confidence.  They  said, 
"We  .  .  .  with  us.  .  .  ."  as  if  they  had  never 
spoken  these  words  with  their  full  meaning.  And 
already  the  desire  to  be  polite  was  touchingly 
evident  in  men  and  women  of  the  humblest  class, 
who  usually  did  not  voluntarily  offer  their  seats 
and  liked  to  elbow  well-dressed  people  whom  they 
considered  rich. 

At  the  barrier  Simone  found  the  tramway.  It 
ran  between  the  crowded  houses  of  the  suburban 
district,  then  on  the  roadways  black  with  coal- 
dust  and  planted  with  sickly  trees.  The  land- 
scape stretched  out,  disfigured  and  soiled  by  in- 
dustries, and  yet  acquiring  from  them  a  kind  of 
sombre  grandeur,  a  gloomy,  powerful  vitality.  A 
canal  sparkled,  reflecting  red  and  black  boats. 
Zinc  roofs  shone  dully  above  the  brick  wall.  Im- 
mense chimneys  belched  volumes  of  soot-col- 
ored smoke  against  the  low-hanging  clouds.  On 
the  yellowish  fagades  of  the  working-men's  tene- 
ments could  be  seen  geraniums  on  window-sills, 
under  a  decoration  of  washing,  and  the  interiors 
with  wardrobes  with  glass  doors,  mattresses  on 


194  To  Arms! 

the  floor  and  women  in  loose  jackets,  busy  with 
the  Saturday  house-cleaning. 

As  the  tram  passed  over  the  railroad  bridge,  a 
station  building  guarded  by  Zouaves  could  be 
seen  far  below.  The  men  lifted  their  hats  to  sa- 
lute the  soldiers,  and  in  the  Turkish  caps  and  the 
baggy  trousers  and  the  bayonets  glittering  at  the 
ends  of  their  guns,  Simone  had  the  first  concrete 
vision  of  the  great  thing  she  had  imagined  in  an 
ensemble  of  large  and  confused  pictures  and  emo- 
tions. 

The  tramway  penetrated  into  a  region  of  fac- 
tories, stores,  warehouses  and  working-men's 
homes.  Young  men  passed,  going  in  an  opposite 
direction,  near  the  station.  Each  one  carried  a 
bag,  a  knapsack,  or  a  package  tied  in  a  handker- 
chief; some  were  carrying  big  shoes  over  their 
shoulders,  peasant  fashion.  Almost  always  two 
women  accompanied  them,  an  old  and  a  young 
one ;  the  mother,  with  the  wife  or  a  fiancee.  Some- 
times the  young  woman  led  a  child  by  the  hand. 
Some  were  evidently  expectant  mothers,  and 
blighting  grief  had  aged  their  wan  faces. 


To  Arms!  195 

But  none  of  these  women  cried.  Their  re- 
signed sorrow  made  them  humble  in  comparison 
with  the  calm  pride  of  the  man. 

Before  the  principal  entrance  of  the  factory 
Simone  left  the  tramway. 


XV 

THE  clouds,  pale  and  leaden,  spread  their 
filmy  ragged  edges.     The  sun  penetrated 
them  in  spots  and  was  reflected  by  the  windows 
and  the  zinc  roofs  of  the  factory  where  its  bril- 
liant rays  touched  them. 

The  grilled  gateway  was  large  and  opened  on 
a  court.  At  the  back  were  the  smoky  brick  build- 
ings, the  workshops,  running  the  entire  length, 
and  the  offices  indicated  by  black  signs.  The 
grass,  blackened  by  coal  dust,  formed  green  trails 
on  the  trampled  earth  and  the  pavements.  Some 
poplars  extended  above  a  roof.  Near  the  main 
office  several  military  automobiles  waited,  pant- 
ing. The  hurried  throb  of  their  motors  seemed 
to  urge  on  the  hidden  life  of  the  machinery 
operating  behind  the  walls.  The  throbbings  said : 
"Quicker!  Quicker!"  as  if  the  pliant  vehicles 
that  skim  the  earth  would  like  to  allure  away 

above  them,  in  the  same  flight,  the  beautiful  aero- 

196 


To  Arms!  197 

planes  about  to  be  born.  Quicker !  Quicker !  let 
the  forges  blaze,  the  electricity  pass  on  the  net- 
work of  wires,  the  machines  fashion  the  metal, 
wood  and  cloth,  so  that  the  birds  of  war  may 
finally  leave  their  nests !  Faster !  Faster ! 

No  other  sounds  were  heard  in  the  vast  court, 
nothing  but  this  impatient  palpitation! 

Before  the  pay  offices  were  many  laborers 
in  working  clothes.  They  were  reservists  whom 
the  order  of  departure  had  not  reached  at  their 
homes  in  the  morning.  Their  wives  were  come 
in  haste  to  bring  the  papers  left  by  the  police. 
They  dropped  their  work  immediately;  they  had 
gathered  in  a  little  package  the  small  personal 
possessions  that  they  always  kept  in  a  corner  of 
the  shop,  and  had  gone,  for  the  last  time,  to  draw 
their  wages. 

Outside  of  the  gates  their  wives  watched  for 
their  coming  and  other  women  arrived  holding 
the  summons  in  their  trembling  fingers  and  drag- 
ging along  the  children  who  clung  to  their  skirts. 
They  talked  to  the  concierges,  then  stood  to  one 
side,  docilely.  Some  of  them  bit  their  lips  or 


198  To  Arms! 

blinked  their  eyes  to  keep  back  the  starting  tears 
and  that  gave  them  a  haggard  expression.  As 
soon  as  a  man  had  passed  the  door,  a  woman  sep- 
arated herself  from  the  group  and  went  to  him. 
They  faced  each  other  without  a  word,  linked 
arms,  and  walked  away.  .  .  . 

Simone  Davesnes  watched  for  the  silhouette  of 
Frangois  in  the  court.  She  saw  him  with  two  en- 
gineers. They  passed  through  the  gate  and  stood 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  The  workmen  already 
outside  saluted  them. 

As  Simone  approached  him,  she  heard  Francois 
say: 

"It  is  a  sign  of  the  times !  Yesterday,  our  ex- 
cellent Syndicalists  would  not  have  saluted  us 
outside  of  the  factory." 

He  finally  discovered  Simone  and  introduced 
his  friends  to  her;  Leclercq,  Lieutenant  of  Artil- 
lery, and  Rochebelle,  a  naval  officer.  Madame 
Davesnes  knew  Leclercq,  having  met  him  once  at 
a  little  station  restaurant  where  she  had  some- 
times lunched  with  her  husband. 

Though  the  presence  of  the  engineers  would 


To  Arms!  199 

have  been  agreeable  under  other  circumstances, 
it  was  now  distressing  to  Simone,  for  she  had 
hoped  to  be  alone  with  Frangois.  In  spite  of  the 
notice,  she  sat  beside  him,  on  the  leather  bench  of 
the  restaurant,  opposite  Rochebelle. 

Leclercq,  a  thin  and  refined  young  man  with 
fiery  black  eyes,  was  radiant.  He  had  just  re- 
ceived his  summons  and  although  he  was  married 
and  a  father,  he  did  not  think  of  his  family.  .  .  . 
He  said: 

"We  shall  march,  go  into  action,  destroy  and 
create!  What  an  opportunity!  .  .  .  We  are 
privileged  to  live  at  this  time!" 

The  marine  chimed  in  chorus: 

"Yes,  it  is  a  good  thing!  We  might  have  been 
too  young  or  too  old,  whereas  we  are  just  the 
right  age,  strong,  stout-hearted  and  in  good  shape. 
And  what  a  fine  spirit  our  workers  have!  I 
should  not  have  believed  it.  ...  I  distrusted 
them.  .  .  .  They  are  brave,  that  sort." 

"You  saw,"  said  FranQois,  "how  they  saluted 
you?" 

All  three  took  pleasure  in  praising  this  sugges- 


200  To  Arms! 

tion  of  discipline  among  the  men  they  would 
shortly  command  and  they  enjoyed  talking  of  ar- 
tillery stores  and  aviation  in  technical  language 
that  Simone  did  not  understand  in  the  least.  It 
did  not  occur  to  them  to  excuse  themselves  to  the 
young  woman  absorbed  in  the  same  interest  for 
speaking  seriously  and  in  a  manly  way  instead  of 
trying  to  divert  her  with  agreeable  talk. 

Occasionally,  Rochebelle  turned  to  her  to  ex- 
plain a  word  that  she  had  not  understood.  He 
was  young,  blond,  with  gentle  eyes.  Simone 
asked  him: 

"Are  you  going  to  embark,  Monsieur?" 

He  didn't  know  at  all.  He  would  go  where 
his  superiors  sent  him  after  having  joined  his  ship 
in  the  appointed  harbor. 

They  began  to  compare  naval  warfare  with 
war  on  land  and  Frangois  asserted  that  a  field 
battery  in  action  was  a  marvellous  thing. 

"And  don't  you  think  that  a  submarine  may 
prove  to  be  a  marvellous  thing4?"  said  Rochebelle. 

"Yes,  that  would  be  interesting  to  navigate. 
But  I  should  prefer  a  good  aeroplane.  Ah !  I  re- 


To  Arms!  201 

gret  not  having  my  pilot's  license !  It  is  true  that 
one  could  always  be  an  observer." 

"I,"  said  Leclercq,  "like  cannon.  I  am  in  the 
artillery  because  of  a  real  vocation." 

They  spoke  of  engines  of  war  with  a  proud  in- 
terest and  a  kind  of  affection.  And  they  also 
mentioned  their  pleasure  at  being  able  to  follow 
their  profession  at  last  and  play  the  part  they 
had  prepared  for  since  their  youth.  The  aero- 
planes already  constructed  would  not  be  used  for 
imitation  war  during  the  autumn  manoeuvres; 
they  would  soon  fly  over  real  battle-fields,  pur- 
sued by  real  shrapnel,  and  with  death,  glorious 
death,  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  pilot  and  the  wind 
of  victory  in  their  wings. 

"And  what  would  you  say,  gentlemen,"  asked 
Simone,  "if  the  Ministry  kept  you  at  the  fac- 
tory?" 

Rochebelle  declared  that  he  would  be  heart- 
broken, and  that  he  would  do  everything  in  the 
world  to  play  a  more  active  role  than  that  of  an 
engineer  in  a  factory.  There  were  enough  mature 


202  To  Arms! 

men  fitted  for  such  work,  but  the  young  dreamed 
of  other  things. 

"When  they  spoke  to  you  of  remaining,  Da- 
vesnes,  it  didn't  seem  to  please  you.  Then,  you 
are  going  to  Besangon?" 

"Probably,"  replied  Frangois,  who  felt  his  wife 
quiver  beside  him. 

"My  regiment  is  in  the  East,"  said  Leclercq. 
"I  shall  not  have  time  to  see  my  little  family 
again.  They  are  installed  at  the  other  end  of 
France  for  the  summer.  „  .  .  But  it  is  perhaps 
better  so.  When  a  man  goes  where  I  am  going, 
it  is  better  not  to  look  behind  him.  .  .  .  Ah! 
Rochebelle,  you  are  lucky  to  be  free  and  alone!" 

"Is  one  ever  free  and  alone*?"  said  the  marine 
as  his  eyes  grew  sober. 

Simone  divined  his  thought  and  she  said  to  him, 
sweetly : 

"Those  who  remain  behind  must  be  pitied  a 
little.  In  war,  you  see  only  action,  glorious  dan- 
ger and  also  the  exercise  of  your  profession.  I 
admire  your  fine  courage,  but  I  cannot  speak  of 
war,  as  you  do,  with  serenity.  The  unheard  of 


To  Arms!  203 

suffering  I  foresee  makes  me  wretched  in  advance, 
and  I  feel  myself  tortured  with  all  the  wounded 
and  with  all  the  women  whose  hearts  will  ache, 
o  .  «  To  sacrifice  oneself!  Ah!  That  would  be 
easy  and  deserving  of  little  praise.  Each  one  of 
us  would  be  glad  to  die  for  the  country  .  »  „  but 
to  sacrifice  those  whom  we  love !  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  faltered,  choked  by  a  nervous  con- 
traction in  her  throat.  She  did  not  dare  to  look 
at  Frangois. 

"I  pity  the  women,"  Rochebelle  replied,  "but 
Leclercq  is  right:  when  one  is  going  where  we 
must  go,  he  must  not  turn  to  look  back.  Exces- 
sive emotion  over  dear  ones  and  too  vivid  a  real- 
ization of  their  sufferings  weakens  us,  while  we 
shall  increase  our  strength  tenfold  if  we  are  able 
to  forget  and  consider  ourselves,  from  now  on,  as 
dead." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  revolted.  "You  are  hard- 
hearted !" 

"But,  Madame,  I  have  not  said  that  I  was  able 
to  practise  stoicism  to  this  degree." 


204  To  Arms! 

Leclercq  said  that  the  duty  of  women  was 
simple. 

"They  must  keep  quiet,  first  of  all !  .  .  .  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Madame,  for  this  brutal  frankness. 
.  .  .  No  manifestations  from  the  suffragettes! 
The  part  of  women,  in  time  of  war9  consists  in 
governing  the  house,  raising  the  children,  and 
nursing  the  wounded.  We  shall  attend  to  the 
rest." 

"You  are  severe  on  us,"  said  Simone.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  if  all  the  men  go,  the  women 
must  preserve  the  life  of  the  country  in  many 
ways  which  we  ourselves  cannot  foresee.  Very 
modestly  and  with  dignity,  they  will  be,  like  you, 
at  the  service  of  France.  .  .  .  And  don't  be 
afraid!  They  will  hide  their  tears." 

She  spoke  without  looking  at  Francois,  but  she 
was  really  addressing  herself  to  him  alone  and 
waited  for  his  warm  approbation. 

He  only  said: 

"Trust  the  French  women.  They  have  known 
how  to  do  their  duty  in  the  past  and  we  have 


To  Arms!  205 

not  needed  to  give  them  lessons.  This  discussion 
is  quite  useless." 

He  was  not  willing,  before  strangers,  to  pro- 
long a  discussion  which  indirectly  concerned  Si- 
mone,  and  without  transition,  he  returned  to  the 
war  and  politics.  Then  the  young  woman  was 
silent.  She  felt  wretched  and  unhappy  among 
these  men,  separated  even  from  the  one  she  adored 
by  feelings  she  could  not  communicate.  Could 
it  be  true  that  in  the  moral  order  values  were 
changed  to  such  a  degree  that  tenderness  and  com- 
passion had  become  weakness,  almost  feminine 
faults,  snares  that  the  masculine  will  must  avoid 
in  order  to  keep  itself  intact? 

Simone  said  to  herself  that  patriotism  is  not 
the  same  thing  for  a  woman  that  it  is  for  a  man. 
It  has  not  the  brutality  of  an  instinct  nor  the 
austerity  of  an  idea.  It  is  a  feeling  that  does  not 
attach  itself  to  abstraction  and  does  not  under- 
stand the  bloody  intoxication  of  battle.  The 
woman's  France  is  first  the  home,  husband,  child, 
then  the  Church,  the  peaceful  country-side,  fam- 
ily traditions  and  the  graves  of  the  dead.  The 


206  To  Arms! 

man's  France  is  all  that,  but  it  is  also  the  tilled 
field,  workshop,  factory,  laboratory,  library  and 
regiment.  The  woman's  France  is  made  of  love; 
that  is  what  is  defended.  The  France  of  man  is 
love  and  action  together:  it  is  that  which  fights. 

And  as  the  night  before,  Simone  had  said  to 
Frangois,  this  word  "War"  did  not  create  the 
same  pictures  in  their  minds.  The  men  saw  noth- 
ing but  the  insulter,  the  enemy.  All  their  energy 
was  strained  by  the  attack  and  the  repulse,  and 
they  were  not  unhappy,  because  they  were  certain 
that  they  were  doing  their  duty.  In  war,  women 
see  the  other  side.  For  centuries,  men  have 
slaughtered  for  just  and  unjust  causes,  but  the 
causes  are  their  own,  and  the  menace  of  death  has 
never  come  from  those  who  nurse  the  wounded 
and  renew  the  race.  While  flags  wave  and  trum- 
pets resound,  the  women  having  given  their  own 
flesh  and  blood  to  their  country,  do  not  complain ; 
but  they  all  think  of  the  soldiers  abandoned  in 
the  trenches  and  agonising  on  hospital  cots,  of 
burning  villages,  of  wandering  orphans,  and  of 
all  the  mothers  of  all  nations  who  have  given 


To  Arms!  207 

birth  in  anguish,  endured  fatigue,  fed,  nursed 
and  brought  up  for  twenty  years  the  fine  young 
men  devoted  to  death. 

Simone  was  reflecting  in  this  way  when,  sud- 
denly, she  felt  the  hand  of  Frangois  seeking  hers, 
under  the  table,  and  pressing  it  secretly,  lovingly 
until  it  hurt  her.  Pent-up  emotion  filled  his  eyes 
with  tears. 

How  she  longed  to  be  alone  with  Francois! 
How  she  wanted  to  lean  against  his  shoulder, 
saying  to  him:  "Love  me!  Love  me!  I  suffer. 
You  know  it,  and  neither  you  nor  I  would  say 
anything.  .  .  „  But  silently,  to  help  me  to  be 
strong,  without  fear  of  being  weakened  by  me, 
love  me,  love  me,  my  beloved."  And  here  she 
was  obliged  to  control  herself  for  the  sake  of  con- 
vention. The  hours  were  passing,  the  last  hours 
that  love  claimed  sorrowfully  and  which  every- 
thing— Francois's  profession,  Francois's  friends — 
snatched  from  her. 

Lunch  ended  and  the  men  expressed  the  inten- 
tion of  taking  Madame  Davesnes  to  the  tramway 


208  To  Arms! 

before  returning  to  the  factory.  Rochebelle  and 
Leclercq  discreetly  went  ahead. 

Simone  and  Francois  walked  side  by  side.  He 
said  to  her: 

"I  should  not  have  let  you  come  here.  .  .  . 

She  reproached  him  for  lack  of  frankness. 

"They  offered  you  a  position  at  the  factory  and 
you  have  refused  it.  Why  did  you  hide  it  from 
me?" 

He  defended  himself  vigorously.  "At  first,  he 
had  nothing  to  refuse,  because  no  one  had  offered 
him  anything.  In  speaking  with  his  directors 
about  possibilities  still  vague,  he  had,  like  every 
one  else,  expressed  his  desire  to  go  to  the  front. 
What  could  be  more  natural"?  He  was  not  an 
invalid  nor  a  greybeard.  He  was  not  even  one 
of  those  specialists  whose  services  are  more  val- 
uable behind  the  army  than  on  the  first  lines. 
He  had  not  asked  for  war,  but  if  it  broke  out — 
he  still  spoke  as  if  it  were  not  inevitable — he  in- 
tended to  take  his  part  fully." 

"Do  not  hope  that  they  will  keep  me  here !  I 
should  be  desperate.  I  should  be  ill.  ...  If  you 


To  Arms!  209 

are  capable  of  wishing  such  a  thing  you  should 
not  have  married  an  officer.  .  .  ." 

She  quieted  him  with  a  word. 

"My  husband,  you  belong  to  France  before 
you  do  to  me.  I  know  it.  That  is  why  you  must 
tell  me  all  without  reservation,," 

He  whispered: 

"I  am  a  little  nervous,  Simone.  Waiting  for 
coming  events  over-excites  every  one.  We  are 
violent  without  reason.  Forgive  me.  I  adore 
you,  dearest,  and  I  feel  all  your  suffering.  Go 
home  now  and  try  to  occupy  yourself  until  even- 
ing. We  shall  meet  at  Nicolette's,  and  to-mor- 
row, if  events  do  not  move  too  quickly,  we  shall 
have  one  more  day  together.  .  .  ." 

The  tram  stopped.  Frangois  helped  Simone  in- 
to the  car.  She  hardly  had  time  to  bow  to  Le- 
clercq  and  Rochebelle. 


XVI 

THE  long  car  was  almost  empty.  An  old 
man  read  in  a  low  voice,  making  comments, 
the  letters  of  condolence  addressed  to  Madame 
Jaures  and  published  in  the  latest  edition  of  the 
paper.  Two  women  listened.  The  letter  of  the 
President  of  the  Republic  seemed  to  them  very 
acceptable,  but  they  were  surprised  that  Maurice 
Barres  and  Marcel  Habert  had  written  in  a  sym- 
pathetic way.  They  did  not  consider  then  that 
Jaures  was  a  disloyal  Frenchman. 

"Hadn't  he  opposed  the  three-years'  law;  what 
should  we  have  done  to-day?" 

The  old  man  explained  that  certain  errors  in 
judgment  did  not  imply  intellectual  disloyalty 
and  lack  of  patriotism.  But  the  women  did  not 
make  these  distinctions.  They  were  convinced 
that  the  Anarchists  would  stop  the  mobilisation 
if  they  were  not  put  in  prison,  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, beginning  with  Gustave  Herve. 

2IO 


To  Arms!  211 

"But  Herve  is  not  an  Anarchist!  He  has  be- 
come patriotic  and  he  is  preaching  a  crusade 
against  Prussian  militarism,35  said  the  old  man. 

And  he  flourished  a  number  of  the  Guerre  So- 
ciale  with  a  wide  black  border. 

On  the  platform,  a  laboring  man  chatted  with 
the  conductor.  He  had  deposited  at  his  feet  a 
canvas  sack  filled  with  bunches  of  garlic  and  he 
held  under  his  left  arm  a  fagot  of  laurel  twigs 
with  glossy,  dark  leaves, 

"It  looks  as  if  we  were  going  to  have  it!"  he 
said. 

"My  goodness!"  replied  the  conductor.  "It 
certainly  does." 

"There  are  still  persons  who  don't  think  so." 

"People  have  talked  so  much  about  war  and  it 
hasn't  come !  .  .  .  That's  why  they  hold  to  that 
idea." 

"As  for  me,"  said  the  man  with  the  laurel,  "I 
saw  right  away  that  the  affair  would  end  badly. 
Well,  I  have  taken  my  precaution,  and  I  am  not 
excited." 


212  To  Arms! 

He  drew  a  small  record  book  out  of  his  pocket 
and  winked  with  one  eye. 

"Get  out,  you  big  rascal !"  said  the  conductor. 
"He  is  scared  and  has  taken  his  money  out  of  the 
savings  bank." 

"Savings!  You  want  to  make  fun  of  me1?  In 
my  trade,  we  don't  have  any  savings.  I  sell  gar- 
lic and  laurel.  The  profit  is  not  large.  No,  what 
I  asked  for  was  my  military  book,  not  my  savings 
book.  The  quartermaster  had  forgotten  to  write 
my  order  of  mobilisation  in  it.  Also,  last  Mon- 
day, I  took  it  to  the  Town  Hall  to  have  it  writ- 
ten up,  and  just  now,  they  have  returned  it  to 
me.  ...  I  go  the  second  day." 

He  replaced  his  book  in  his  pocket  and  arrang- 
ing his  odoriferous  branches,  remarked: 

"I  work  with  machine  guns.  They  are  splen- 
did. It  is  worth  while  to  work  with  anything  like 
that." 

The  tram  crossed  the  city  limit.  Simone  rose. 
Before  her,  the  honest  man,  burdened  with  his 
sack  and  fagot,  left  at  the  first  stop.  He  had  a 
farewell  smile  for  the  conductor: 


To  Arms!  213 

"Good-bye,  perhaps!  We  can  easily  see  what 
is  coming.  While  we  are  waiting,  we  must  live ! 
I  am  going  to  sell  my  garlic  and  laurel." 

Simone  admired  the  practical  philosophy  of 
the  poor  men,  and  the  teaching  they  gave  in  their 
candor,  to  those  who  knew  how  to  listen.  How 
quickly  they  resigned  themselves  and  how  easily 
they  adapted  themselves  to  circumstances!  The 
war  would  trample  on  their  interests  and  affec- 
tions. But  they  bent  their  backs  under  this  bur- 
den, without  losing  time  and  seeking  for  the 
causes  of  the  trouble.  War,  oh,  yes!  it  is  ter- 
rible! but,  as  Madame  Miton  said,  in  the  midst 
of  her  tears,  "We  cannot  become  Prussians,  and 
as  we  must  endure  the  scourge,  we  must  resign 
ourselves  to  it,  as  we  would  to  illness,  deaths  in 
the  family  and  everything  that  comes  to  us  in  life. 
So  much  the  better  for  those  who  survive !  The 
Others,,  we  pity  and  honor,  but  we  think:  'It  was 
their  destinyo3 " 

Besides,  if  one  must  die,  a  bullet  in  the  chest 
is  less  painful  than  a  cancer  and  cleaner.  But 
as  long  as  we  are  alive,  we  must  not  worry  our 


214  To  Arms! 

heads  finding  reasons  for  everything  and  thinking 
gloomy  thoughts.     The  wise  man  clings  to  his 
usual  habits  to  the  very  last  moment,  carries  on 
his  little  business,  enjoys  himself  properly  with 
his  family  or  his  sweetheart,  and  says,  as  he  drinks 
his  last  glass,  the  "stirrup-cup": 
"Here's  one  less  for  the  Prussians.'3 
It  is  a  classic  joke  by  no  means  new,  but  real- 
ity makes  it  more  piquant  and  it  always  amuses 
a  good  Frenchman! 

Simone  felt  herself  as  remote  from  this  popu- 
lar philosophy  as  she  did  from  the  cheerful  cour- 
age of  a  Rochebelle,  or  a  Leclercq.  Her  resig- 
nation was  not  a  passive  assent  to  inevitable  mis- 
fortune, as  with  the  plain  people.  It  was  the 
result  of  a  painful  effort  of  her  will  and  reason. 
The  young  woman  knew  her  duty  and  fulfilled  it. 
A  daughter  of  Racine  and  not  of  Corneille,  she 
acknowledged  herself  incapable  of  heroism  with- 
out special  strength  which  she  drew,  humbly, 
from  the  example  of  the  poor,  from  the  memory 
of  her  ancestors,  from  the  sweetness  of  her  im- 
perilled country,  and  even  from  her  love,  desiring 


To  Arms!  215 

it  to  be  worthy  of  Francois.  She  said  to  herself 
that  Marie  Pourat  was  more  self-sacrificing  than 
she,  but  she  was  tempted  to  ask  herself: 

"What  is  Anthime  Pourat  compared  with  Fran- 
c.ois  Davesnes1?" 

This  thought  made  her  ashamed.  She  sup- 
pressed it  with  all  her  might.  Still,  is  it  not 
true  that  equality  of  misfortune  does  not  involve 
equality  of  suffering*?  Many  widows  console 
themselves  by  a  second  marriage;  the  hearts  of 
others  grow  apathetic  in  dull  forgetf ulness ;  oth- 
ers satisfy  their  need  of  love  with  their  children. 
Perpetual  mourners  are  rare  and  the  law  of  life 
intends  that  it  shall  be  so.  But  the  more  sensi- 
tive and  finely  wrought  the  being,  the  more  great 
shocks  destroy  in  him  the  delicate  cells  and  the 
fine  tissues  that  are  so  slow  in  rebuilding.  An 
oak,  struck  by  lightning,  becomes  green  again.  A 
blooming  rose-bush  withers,,  if  it  is  broken. 

There  was  nothing  abnormal  in  the  little  street 
when  Simone  reached  it,  or,  rather,  the  first  in- 
dication of  the  coming  catastrophe  had  become, 


216  To  Arms! 

in  twenty-four  hours,  part  of  its  normal  aspect. 
One  was  no  longer  surprised  to  see  a  line  of  house- 
wives before  the  Gouge  grocery.  The  vegetable 
and  fruit  markets  were  offering  string-beans,,  to- 
matoes and  perishable  food  for  almost  nothing, 
and  the  fish-seller  behind  her  stall,  sadly  contem- 
plated the  despised  soles  and  lobsters  spoiling  in 
the  thundery  weather.  People  paused,  loaded 
with  provisions;  one  carrying  two  cans  of  petrol, 
another  a  can  of  wood-alcohol ;  one  had  dry  vege- 
tables in  a  yellow  paper  bag  and  another  a  bo;\ 
of  prunes  and  packages  of  macaroni.  This  un- 
necessary laying  in  of  provisions  amused  the  Par- 
isians as  a  fine  trick,  played  beforehand,  on  the 
greedy  merchants,  and  a  few  shops  where  prices 
had  been  raised  at  once  were  already  hearing  the 
rumbling  of  popular  discontent. 

Mademoiselle  Florence  was  embroidering 
among  the  fuchsias  in  pots  and  the  larkspurs 
that  bloom  in  the  beautiful  month  of  August. 
But  few  customers  interrupted  her  work  and 
dreams.  By  contrast,  Madame  Anselme's  shop 
was  doing  a  good  business.  Special  pamphlets 


To  Arms!  217 

about  the  war  had  been  added  since  morning  to 
the  women's  fashion  magazines  and  novels. 
France  Victorious  in  the  Coming  War.  .  .  „  The 
Partition  of  France  (Translated  from  the  Ger- 
man), with  its  counterpart:  The  Partition  of  Ger- 
many. The  kind  neighbor  was  installed  at  the 
counter.  She  gave  moving  details  of  the  hand- 
some stationer's  illness  to  the  customers  and  the 
women  lowered  their  voices  in  sympathy  0  More 
and  more  timid,  the  manager  of  the  dairy  kept 
the  metal  curtain  half  lowered  in  front  of  the 
building.  The  surly  groups,  among  whom  were 
some  very  young  Apachess  were  come  to  prowl  on 
the  sidewalk  in  the  hope  of  pouring  out  a  stream 
of  poisoned  milko  The  agent  was  not  sure  wheth- 
er the  mysterious  Maggi  was  German,  Austrian, 
or  Swiss,  but  she  was  very  sure  that  his  milk  was 
good,  no  matter  what  it  was,  and  that  it  came 
from  peaceable  French  animals.  In  her  indig- 
nant soul,  she  blamed  the  stupid  crowd  and  re- 
called the  scenes  of  the  Revolution  she  had  seen 
in  moving  pictures. 

Why  couldn't  she  imitate  the  little  locksmith 


218  To  Arms! 

and  lampmakei-j  on  the  corner  of  the  Place  oppo- 
site the  cleaners'?  This  man,  an  Alsatian,  had 
taken  care  to  prevent  possible  ill-intentioned  at- 
tacks, and  had  written  on  his  door,  in  chalk: 

A  FRENCH  SHOP 

The  proprietor  is  mobilised  in  the  Tenth 
Artillery 

LONG  LIVE  FRANCE! 

At  the  sight  of  this  inscription  the  rascals  play- 
ing hopscotch  were  seized  with  great  patriotic 
zeal  and  in  the  squares,  drawn  on  the  sidewalk, 
they  replaced  the  words  "Heaven"  and  "Hell" 
with  "France"  and  "Germany." 

Their  play  took  on  a  warlike  character,  a  stra- 
tegical interest,  to  impress  the  little  girls  who  did 
not  jump  rope  any  more.  The  oldest,  the  clean- 
er's daughter,  was  burdened  with  a  large  baby, 
swaddled  in  tight  sausage-like  clothes.  The 
youngest  watched  the  living  plaything  with  long- 
ing  eyes.  From  time  to  time,  she  murmured: 

"Jeanne,  let  me  hold  your  little  brother." 


To  Arms!  219 

Jeanne  was  looking  at  the  game  and  did  not 
listen  or  else  she  replied: 

"You  wouldn't  know  how.  .  .  ." 

The  little  one  yielding  at  last  to  her  desire, 
tickled  the  child's  chin  and  excited  it  with  shrill 
cries.  Finally,  she  pulled  her  playmate's  apron. 

"Jeanne!  Lend  me  your  little  brother!  I'll 
give  you  a  sou." 

"Truly?' 

"Yes!     Here  is  the  sou!" 

"Well,  take  him,  then." 

The  hoarse  voices  of  men  selling  papers  called 
unintelligible  words,  far  away,  on  the  avenue. 
The  grinding  of  the  saw  rose  from  the  woodcut- 
ter's yard.  There  was  a  smothered  oath  and  a 
heavy  concussion  of  stones  being  dumped  on  a 
cart,  but  the  workmen  no  longer  whistled  and 
only  spoke  when  it  was  necessary. 

They  have  sent  an  apprentice  to  get  the  last 
edition  of  the  paper.  The  boy  returned  running. 

"Nothing  new*?" 

"Just  the  same  things.  „  „  „  There  are  details 
about  the  lunatic  who  killed  Jaures." 


22O  To  Arms! 

"Oh!  the  lunatic!  We  ought  to  know  about 
it!  .  .  ."  said  the  old  workman  whose  father 
had  been  through  the  Commune., 

He  was  sad,  because  he  had  had  faith  in  Jau- 
res's  influence,  in  the  good-will  of  the  German 
comrades,  in  the  reign  of  brotherhood  and  justice. 
All  of 'his  illusions  were  falling  to  pieces.  He 
recalled  public  gatherings  when  the  voice  never  to 
speak  again  had  carried  the  audience  over  wide 
billows  of  soothing  phrases,  towards  the  shore  of 
the  future,  towards  the  Promised  Land,  which 
was  to  include  the  entire  world,  pacific  and  at 
peace.  And  he  thought  of  his  twenty-year-old 
son,  of  his  daughter,  married  three  weeks  ago, 
and  his  brave  and  worn-out  wife.  From  the 
depths  of  his  soul,  he  cursed  Germany,,  and  in 
spite  of  his  approaching  sixtieth  birthday  his 
hands  trembled  with  longing  to  carry  a  gun  too. 

Work  consumed  their  strength  and  somewhat 
obscured  the  one  thought  that  weighed  on  their 
spirits.  Stones  fell  into  the  wagon  and  the  saw 
ground  away.  „  „  „ 

The  white  clouds  turned  to  a  leaden  grey.    The 


To  Arms!  221 

enervated  cats,  howling  at  the  coming  storm, 
stretched  out  on  the  warm  ground.  In  the  thick 
verdure  of  the  chestnut  trees,  the  loving  "coulou 
— coulou"  of  the  doves,  died  away  languidly. 

The  coolness  of  the  white  vestibule  enfolded 
Simone  Davesnes  like  a  subtle  perfume.  In  pass- 
ing, she  had  a  glimpse  of  the  lodge  full  of  women 
— neighbors  come  to  console  Madame  Miton. 

It  was  incredible — the  women,  seated  or  stand- 
ing, were  silent.  Each  had  brought  her  own  anx- 
iety and  had  added  it,  piled  up,  to  the  cares  of 
the  others.  Together,  they  remembered  the  uni- 
versal grief.  They  no  longer  asked  anxiously: 
"Will  there  be  war*?  .  .  ."  They  inquired: 
"When1?  To-morrow  or  this  evening,  or  at 
once*?"  The  fact  that  Gustave  Miton  had  gone, 
that  one  mother  had  begun  her  sacrifice,  affected 
the  others  as  a  crude  colored  picture  influences 
the  illiterate.  Spoken  or  printed  words  do  not 
convey  a  sufficiently  vivid  impression  of  truth  to 
nai've  minds  to  cause  conviction.  These  women 
knew,  now,  by  a  visible  example,  the  fate  of 
them  all.  Some  of  them  had  grumbled : 


222  To  Arms! 

"What  shall  we  do?  .  .  .  How  can  we  live? 
...  On  what?  .  .  ." 

Questions  without  answers. 

Madame  Miton  had  vanished  in  the  depths  of 
an  armchair.  A  little  blonde,  with  a  pretty  bare 
neck,  her  arms  crossed  on  a  sewing-machine  table, 
wept  quietly.  It  was  Gustave  Miton's  fiancee. 

Marie  Pourat  opened  the  door  for  Simone.  She 
had  arrived  later  than  usual  in  order  to  be  free 
after  six  o'clock,  since  Monsieur  and  Madame 
were  to  dine  in  the  city. 

"Madame  doesn't  know  anything  new?"  she 
inquired. 

"No,  Marie,  nothing." 

"I  have  drawn  my  money  out  of  the  bank.  If 
my  husband  goes,  I  shall  not  need  any  help." 

Marie  Pourat  was  a  capitalist!  The  fortune 
of  France  is  made  by  millions  of  these  ants  who 
heap  up  the  sous  and  silver  and  gold  pieces  like 
grains  in  savings  banks  and  trust  companies. 

Proud  in  her  own  fashion,  expecting  nothing 
of  any  one,  Marie  foresaw  hard  times  and,  in  giv- 


To  Arms!  223 

ing  her  Anthime  to  the  country,  she  found  it  quite 
natural  to  put  her  money  where  it  would  be  safe. 
This  thought  made  Simone  almost  smile  as  she 
tore  open  her  letter  in  the  salon.  The  Davesnes 
were  perhaps  poorer  than  their  housemaid;  they 
had  lived  from  day  to  day,  since  their  marriage, 
protected  by  the  contract  binding  the  engineer  to 
his  factory.  For  the  first  time,  Simone  realised 
that  her  material  existence  would  be  changed. 
Formerly,  she  had  earned  her  living  by  making 
small  figures  of  wax  and  fabric,  with  her  deft 
fingers,  but  the  trades  dealing  in  artistic  luxuries 
would  be  ended  by  the  war.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  ...  In  truth,  economic  difficulties, 
even  poverty,  did  not  frighten  her.  The  two  let- 
ters, read  at  a  glance,  made  her  certain  that  she 
would  know  how  to  adapt  herself  to  the  unknown 
conditions  of  her  future  life.  One  came  from 
Brittany  and  demanded  immediate  answer  in  re- 
gard to  the  Kermarie  and  Kerhostin  Villas;  the 
other  reminded  her  of  the  hour  arranged  for  a 
fitting,  and  both  seemed  absurd,  laughable,  many 
things:  a  villa,  a  beach  costume,  useless  super- 


224  To  Arms! 

fluities!  Three  days  had  made  a  profound  sep- 
aration between  the  times  when  these  things 
counted,  when  it  was  possible  to  enjoy  liberty, 
leisure,  the  beauty  of  the  world,  the  sweetness 
of  living  and  a  sense  of  long  life  ahead,  and  the 
time  when  every  life  was  unbalanced  to  the  ex- 
tent that  one  could  not  even  conceive  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  happiness  and  it  seemed  a  privilege 
to  possess  a  roof  and  bread. 

Simone  surveyed  the  salon,  the  furniture  she 
had  chosen,  all  that  she  had  cared  for  with  a  fem- 
inine sense  of  possession.  To  her  great  astonish- 
ment, she  felt  herself  quite  detached  from  all 
these  things,  incapable  of  being  moved  by  their 
possible  loss.  What  had  happened  to  her  un- 
consciously? By  what  process  of  evolution  had 
she  arrived,  without  knowing  it,  at  such  a  state 
of  mind?  She  could  imagine,  without  terror,  the 
misery  and  uprooting,  which  would  kill  the  weak 
and  aged !  She  had  therefore  enough  latent  force 
to  bear  all  these  material  sufferings  and  not  die? 
.  .  .  Would  she  ever  have  the  strength  to  en- 


To  Arms!  225 

dure  the  strain  of  solitude  and  perhaps  the  su- 
preme trial  of  bereavement? 

Her  heart  and  flesh  rebelled.  No,  no,  not  that ! 
She  could  not  endure  that  and  live!  She  could 
not  consent  in  advance  to  the  loss  of  Francois  and 
say:  "Even  this  is  right!  .  .  „" 

The  mere  threat  of  war  had  almost  killed  Ma- 
dame Anselme,  smitten  in  her  maternity  and  too 
weak  to  readjust  under  the  shock.  In  how  many 
poor  women's  souls  had  the  same  blow  brought 
already  the  same  secret  wound,  a  death  stab,  by 
which  life  would  be  ended1?  How  many  mothers 
and  wives  for  whom  the  future  was  not  arranged, 
in  this  hour  of  horrible  uncertainty,  were  crying 
to  Heaven:  "No!  No!  .  .  .  May  it  never 
come!  .  .  ." 

Again,  Simone  experienced  a  mental  struggle. 
Again  she  trembled  all  over  with  the  great  shock 
of  her  grief.  Again,  she  wrung  her  hands  and 
wept  blinding  tears.  Then  she  stopped  shudder- 
ing and  crying.  Her  eyes  were  closed  and  burn- 
ing and  she  became  oblivious  to  everything 
around  her,  a  stranger  to  herself.  .  .  . 


226  To  Arms! 

Suddenly  Marie  Pourat  came  in  without  knock- 
ing: 

"Madame!" 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Madame  .  .  .  there  is  something  the  matter 
.  .  .  everybody  is  running.  ..." 

Simone  went  to  the  open  window.  In  the  street 
the  disturbance  increased,  spreading  like  a  ripple 
over  the  face  of  the  water.  People  ran  hastily 
out  of  the  houses,  looking  in  every  direction,  ques- 
tioning with  voice  and  gesture.  A  man  passed 
the  stoneyard  hurriedly;  he  cried  a  phrase  that 
Simone  and  Marie  did  not  understand. 

Inside  of  the  house  a  door  banged,  shaking  the 
reverberating  staircase  around  the  mounting  ele- 
vator. On  the  landing  of  the  ground  floor,  a  tel- 
ephone rattled.  Madame  Miton  did  not  respond 
to  its  call.  She  was  outside,  like  all  other  neigh- 
bors, including  the  grocer  boys,  the  proprietor 
himself,  also  Madame  Anselme's  substitute  and 
Mademoiselle  Florence.  .  .  .  Outside  were  Mon- 
sieur Lepoultre  and  Alexandre  Frechette,  looking 
in  his  blue  smock  like  the  masons  he  questioned : 


To  Arms!  227 

"Ho,  down  there,  comrades!  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

The  grinding  of  the  saw  was  stopped.  Outside 
of  the  fence,  the  masons  mingled  with  the  passers- 
by.  Wild  with  curiosity,  the  gamins  jostled  the 
older  people,  while  a  group  of  anxious  women 
breathed  out  disconnected  words,  broken  sighs, 
and  a  plaintive  question : 

"What  has  happened?  .  .  .  What  has  hap- 
pened? .  .  ." 

A  young  workman  explained: 

"He  called  it  out  as  he  ran  by.  ...  It  is  post- 
ed at  the  Town  Hall.  .  .  ." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"I  haven't  seen  anything,  myself.  It  was  the 
people  going  by." 

Two  men  came  out  to  the  corner  of  the  Place 
carrying  their  bill-posters'  material  and  a  pack- 
age of  white  placards.  They  were  surrounded, 
followed  and  almost  hustled  along. 

Simone  said  to  Marie  Pourat: 

"Shut  the  window." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  took  her  jacket  and 


228  To  Arms! 

gloves.  She  too  wanted  to  see.  In  the  vestibule, 
she  stumbled  against  Abbe  Moriceau  and  Fre- 
chette's model.  The  street  seemed  to  breathe  peo- 
ple who  came  out  of  the  houses,  some  in  working 
clothes  and  bare-headed. 

The  bill-posters  chose  the  spot,  in  the  middle 
of  the  fence.  Their  trembling  hands  tore  away 
the  last  shreds  of  the  old  hand-bills  and  this  sim- 
ple gesture  was  full  of  symbolic  grandeur. 

Now,  it  was  done.  Artisans,  bourgeois,  work- 
men, the  professor,  the  artist,  the  priest,  young 
women  and  old  mothers,  bright-faced  girls  and 
astonished  children,  all,  citizens  of  France, 
watched  the  square  white  paper,  so  clean  on  the 
soiled  background  with  fading  letters.  1'he  pla- 
card, with  its  crossed  flags  and  black  letters,  be- 
came a  sign-post  at  the  cross-roads  of  two  epochs. 
It  pointed  to  the  blood-stained  road  of  the  future, 
and  all  eyes  and  thoughts  turned  towards  this 
fragile  thing  that  men  saluted  as  if  it  were  a  flag. 

No  one  spoke,  or  was  able  to  speak.  They  had 
foreseen  this  moment.  They  had  waited,  for  two 
days,  but  between  what  they  imagined  and  what 


To  Arms!  229 

they  experienced,  between  moral  certainty  and  the 
actual  event,  what  an  abyss ! 

War! 

The  placard  did  not  contain  this  word,  but  all 
of  its  words  formed  one  only,  sinister  and  start- 
ling. 

War! 

The  dull  tocsin  of  agony  rang  to  the  rhythm 
of  blood  in  the  minds  and  the  souls  of  the  people. 
One  of  the  little  girls  said,  very  low: 

"Is  it  true  that  it  is  war?' 

The  older  one  replied: 

"Yes.  .  .  .  We  must  go  along!" 

She  dragged  the  chubby  little  girl  from  her 
playmate  and  squeezed  her  as  if  to  protect  her. 
Then  an  outburst  of  lamentations  arose: 

"Jean!     My  little  Jean!" 

An  old  woman  was  groaning  in  the  group  of 
women.  Neighbors  surrounded  her.  Frechette's 
little  mistress  sobbed  violently  and  ran  towards 
the  studio.  The  sculptor,  before  following  her, 
said  to  the  Abbe  who  was  near  him : 

"We    shall    do    beautiful,    great    things    for 


230  To  Arms! 

France,  won't  we,  Monsieur?  You,  too,  in  your 
way.  .  .  ." 

The  priest  answered  gently: 

"In  the  same  way  as  you,  Monsieur.  I  am  a 
soldier.  I  shall  go  to-morrow." 

The  old  mason  raised  his  clenched  fist  and 
brought  it  down  as  if  he  were  trying  to  kill  a 
harmful  beast.  A  little  pale,  the  young  people 
tried  to  joke.  The  Alsatian  locksmith,  biting  his 
brown  moustache,  declared: 

"If  my  poor  father  could  have  seen  this  or 
known  that  it  was  coming,  he  would  have  died 
more  happily.  He  is  buried  quite  alone,  in  his 
own  country." 

"With  the  Bodies'?"  asked  a  mason. 

"Not  with  the  Bodies,  in  his  own  country,  I 
tell  you,"  answered  the  Alsatian,  offended.  .  .  . 
"At  home,  in  Colmar." 

"Well,  old  man,  what  your  father  did  not 
know,  you  will  have  a  chance  to  go  and  tell 
him. 


XVII 

SIMON E  escaped  from  the  house  and  the  soli- 
tude where  the  misery  of  her  own  heart  spoke 
too  loudly.  She  crossed  Paris  on  foot.  Scenes 
on  the  way  repeated  everywhere,  and  faces  which 
similar  feelings  marked  with  identical  expression, 
were  to  remain  with  her  as  a  strange  memory,  un- 
certain, like  a  memory  of  a  world  seen  in  the  light 
of  a  nightmare.  In  the  Place  de  1'Opera  a  human 
flood  pushed  her  up  on  the  steps  of  the  theatre. 
The  sky  was  livid,  the  air  overheated  and  the 
houses  grey  and  dull  as  on  the  previous  evening. 
However,  it  was  not  the  suffocating  atmosphere 
of  Friday.  The  crowd  was  still  affected  by  the 
measure  of  stupor  that  follows  a  great  shock,  but 
there  was  also  a  sense  of  relief.  There  was  no 
outward  enthusiasm,  no  cries,  nor  songs,  but  also 
no  sadness  and  at  times  the  agitation  of  spirit 
was  evident  which  is  a  forerunner  of  hope. 

The  windows  of  the  building  surrounding  the 
231 


232  To  Arms! 

square,  the  balconies  of  the  Cerde  Militaire  were 
black  with  people,  pushing  and  leaning  over  them. 
Opposing  eddies  disturbed  the  surface  of  the 
crowd.  The  police  tried  paternally  to  direct  the 
currents.  The  people  applauded  the  procession 
spontaneously  formed  to  march  and  salute  the 
statue  of  Strasbourg,  draped  in  black.  They 
cheered  the  Garde  Republicaine.  They  even 
cheered  the  autobuses  as  the  conductors  cried: 

"It's  our  last  trip;  to-morrow  the  autobuses 
are  going  to  war!  Step  lively,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen !  Hurry !" 

A  gamin  called: 

"Montsouris-Opera-Berlin!  .  .    " 

In  cabs  and  taxis,  reservists  who  feared  crowd- 
ed trains  went  by  to  the  stations.  Others,  carry- 
ing a  knapsack  or  valise,  waited  for  a  vehicle. 
The  public  assisted,  hailing  chauffeurs,  and  even 
asking  travellers  to  give  up  their  places.  The 
soldiers  thanked  them  with  a  smile.  Women  of- 
fered them  roses.  One  of  the  men  gallantly 
kissed  a  beautiful  girl,  who  returned  his  kiss. 
The  crowd  wished  them  good  courage  and  good 


To  Arms!  233 

luck.  Grey-bearded  men,  of  the  campaign  of 
1870,  said  to  them:  "Fight  hard.  Avenge  us. 
.  .  .  Bring  back  Alsace  and  Lorraine!  .  .  ." 
And  the  names  of  lost  provinces,  spoken  so  often, 
had  a  new  sound  and  echoed  profoundly  in  the 
memories  of  the  French. 

Simone  saw  flags  flying  in  the  distance.  The 
national  colors  mingled  with  the  colors  of 
friendly  nations.  Several  groups  came  in  from 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  she  could  distin- 
guish, above  the  moving  mass  of  heads,  the  tra- 
ditional students'  caps.  Some  of  the  young  men 
were  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  their  comrades. 
Their  young  faces  beamed.  A  cheer  went  up. 
They  said : 

"It  is  a  demonstration  of  the  students  and  their 
foreign  comrades  are  with  them." 

Simone  remembered  Pierre  Anselme  and  had  a 
pitying  thought  for  the  poor  mother,  so  naively 
proud.  .  .  .  But  she  was  moved  by  tenderness 
and  was  thrilled,  and  she  understood  that  at  this 
moment,  individual  love  was  being  merged  into 
one  great  affection.  It  stirred,  this  lover  in  the 


234  To  Arms! 

hearts  of  beings  united  by  race,  tongue  and  the 
common  heritage  of  an  ancient  glorious  history, 
more  closely  united  by  the  German  menace  and 
the  defiance  hurled  at  the  enemy  massed  on  the 
frontiers.  Now,  the  forty  millions  of  France 
formed  one  French  family.  Selfishness  melted  in 
the  pure  flame  of  universal  sacrifice.  Those  re- 
maining saw  in  those  who  went  brothers  and 
sons;  and  the  tears  in  resigned  eyes  were  shining 
with  light. 

Simone  thought  no  more  of  Pierre  Anselme  and 
his  mother;  she  did  not  even  think  of  Frangois. 
She  became  a  tiny  particle  of  France  and  felt  a 
great  longing  to  resist  and  endure.  The  desire 
for  victory  became  at  last  part  of  the  nature  of 
the  woman.  She  applauded  with  the  crowd  the 
unknown  young  men  who  marched  by.  How  she 
wanted  to  press  their  hands,  embrace  them  like  a 
sister,  and  say  to  them:  "Go  joyously,  you  who 
die  that  France  may  live!  This  day  is  not  sad. 
No  day,  since  we  were  born,  has  dawned  in  great- 
er beauty.  The  sky  is  grey,  but  behind  the  clouds, 
the  sun  shines.  ." 


To  Arms!  235 

She  still  applauded  and  did  not  know  that  she 
was  crying. 

Quietly  and  with  solemnity  a  hymn  was  sung: 

La  Victoire,  en  chantant,  nous  ouvre  la  barriere. 

La  Liberte  guide  nos  pas, 
Et,  du  nord  au  midi,  la  trompette  guerriere 

A  sonne  Vheure  des  combats.  .  .  . 

Pictures  flashed  through  their  minds :  The  Rev- 
olution, the  young  volunteers,  the  army  of  Du- 
mouriez  in  sabots,  then,  the  poignant  reality  of 
the  hour  that  the  "trumpet  of  war"  was  blowing 
to  the  four  corners  of  the  French  sky:  The  reap- 
ers leaving  the  August  wheat,  workmen  leaving 
the  factory,  the  marines  rejoining  the  men  of  war, 
the  leave-taking  with  sobs  and  kisses,  the  councils 
of  the  old,  the  courageous  gayety  of  the  young 
men,  the  last  look  behind  at  the  village  and  the 
home.  .  .  . 

La  Republique  nous  appelle.  .  .  . 

For  almost  all,  the  Republic,  for  all,  France! 
How  plainly  they  heard  it,  the  voice  of  the  na- 


236  To  Arms! 

tion,  as  they  listened  to  the  words  of  the  revolu- 
tionary song !  And  they  heard  the  bells  in  all  the 
bell- towers  clanging  to  the  sky;  the  drums  of  in- 
numerable villages,  the  rumbling  of  cannon,  foot- 
steps on  the  roads,  the  clash  of  arms,  the  beating 
of  hearts  in  unison,  all  the  uproar  made  by  an 
aroused  people  who  did  not  want  to  die.  Besides 
those  who  had  gone  at  dawn,  others  would  go 
during  the  night  and  still  others  would  be  going 
every  instant  for  days  and  days.  Hussars  in  uni- 
forms blue  as  the  flowers,  dragoons  with  lances, 
active  chasseurs,  Alpines,  colonials,  artillerymen 
driving  cannon  like  beasts  of  battle,  red  and  blue 
infantry  whose  ranks  waved  on  the  march  like 
living  wheat;  and  the  most  like  warriors  of  heroic 
ages,  great  cuirassiers  clad  in  iron,  with  iron  hel- 
mets under  scarlet  or  red  horsehair  plumes,  sit- 
ting stiffly  on  their  heavy  horses,  sabres  at  their 
side,  reins  in  hand,  their  young  faces  pressed  by 
the  chin-straps,  riding,  a  compact  and  sonorous 
mass  towards  the  rising  sun.  .  .  . 

Regiment  after  regiment,  all  leaving,  crowding 
the  roads,  filling  the  interminable  trains,  going 


To  Arms!  237 

to  form  the  first  rampart  of  men  to  check  the  first 
shock  of  the  enemy's  attack.  A  tide  of  soldiers 
would  soon  overflow  the  country,  extending 
northeast,  without  stop.  Already,  the  first  waves 
had  advanced. 

Simone  found  Jean  Reynaud  in  the  Rue  du  Ro- 
cher,  in  the  white  gallery  with  the  green  lattice- 
work. He  went  towards  her  with  outstretched 
hands.  .  .  . 

"Good-morning,  wisest  of  women!  All  the 
family  is  expecting  you.  Come  and  show  Nico- 
lette  the  face  of  a  French  woman  who  does  not 
cry.  .  .  ." 

Very  tall,  very  thin,  with  long  legs,  his  hair 
brushed  flat  on  his  forehead,  he  had  the  aristo- 
cratic insolence  of  thoroughbred  animals.  He 
himself  was  proud  of  being  "as  thin  and  dis- 
dainful as  a  greyhound." 

"I  am  not  the  wisest  of  women,  but  you  are 
the  most  foolish  of  men.  What  kept  you  at  Pon- 
tresina4?" 

"No  telegram  reached  me.    I  left,  with  all  the 


238  To  Arms! 

other  French  people,  when  the  newspapers  gave 
us  the  alarm,  and  I  had  a  strange  journey.  Mon- 
day, I  shall  rejoin  my  regiment  of  dragoons,  at 
Versailles.  I  am  enraptured." 

"That  is  easy  to  see.    And  Nicolette  ?" 

"Ah!  Nicolette!  .  .  .  Before  her,  I  put  out 
my  torches  and  muffle  my  flourish  of  trumpets. 
You  will  find  her  in  the  grey  salon,  with  Maxime 
and  my  parents.  My  mother  is  admirable.  Not 
a  complaint!  A  Catholic  and  Parisian  Cornelia. 
I  am  very  proud  of  her  and  I  think  that  she  will 
be  proud  of  her  sons.  Papa  is  more  affected.  It 
is  true  that  Mamma  has  just  returned  from 
Notre-Dame-des-Victoires  where  two  candles  are 
burning  now,  one  for  Maxime,  the  other  for  me. 
Do  you  believe  in  the  virtue  of  candles,  Simone?" 

"I  believe  in  the  goodness  of  your  mother  and 
in  her  great  love  which  is  worthy  of  being  heard 
by  God.  I  do  not  have  candles  burned,  but  I 
love  the  little  lights  that  comfort  sad  hearts." 

"Mamma  is  about  to  convert  Nicolette,  or 
rather  to  lead  her  back  to  religion,  and  you  will 
see  that  after  I  go,  they  will  forgive  their  mutual 


To  Arms!  239 

grievances  and  go  to  the  churches  together.  .  .  . 
Papa  will  oppose  it.  ...  As  for  Maxime,  he  has 
canonised  Jaures.  Each  one  serves  the  God  that 
speaks  to  his  heart." 

He  had  taken  Simone's  arm  familiarly  and  both 
went  down  the  long  gallery,  with  the  black-and- 
white  pavement.  Simone  thought  of  the  inaug- 
uration fete,  given  in  the  month  of  April  of  this 
same  year,  of  which  the  illustrated  papers  had 
published  colored  photographs.  She  recalled  the 
bright  oranges  hanging  in  the  trimmed  shrubbery, 
the  amber  and  gold  grapes,  with  reddened  leaves, 
festooning  the  arches  of  the  trellis,  and  the  yellow 
and  grey  salon,  a  little  odd,  and  amusing  as  the 
decorations  of  the  Theatre  of  Arts.  The  orna- 
mental designs  in  the  new  style,  the  round  roses 
and  the  baskets  of  fruit,  were  repeated  in  the  fab- 
rics, on  the  backs  of  the  seats  and  on  the  light 
frieze  of  the  ceiling.  A  concealed  orchestra 
played  a  jerky  and  languid  dance.  The  couples 
drew  nearer,  arms  stretched  out,  following  the 
music.  Young  men  with  very  smooth  hair  and 
young  women  bare  under  soft  draperies  and  pre- 


240  To  Arms! 

clous  stones,  crowned  with  aigrettes  and  more 
brilliant  than  birds  of  paradise,  represented  Pari- 
sian society,  the  scandal  of  moralists,  charming  in 
its  corruption;  in  love  with  luxury  and  pleasure, 
artistic  and  fastidious  even  in  the  unbridled  ex- 
travagances of  its  sensuality.  They  were  dancing 
"over  the  volcano" — the  famous  volcano  sup- 
posed to  be  extinct  since  1870!  .  .  .  Simone 
thought  of  this  picture,  now  almost  belonging  to 
the  past.  In  a  few  years  it  would  be  an  inter- 
esting historical  memory;  Paris  "before  the 
war."  .  .  . 

"How  many  of  the  slender  young  men  who 
danced  the  tango  would  ever  come  here  again*? 
How  many  of  the  women  would  be  wrapped  in 
crepe  «" 

She  looked  at  Jean  and  a  feeling  of  apprehen- 
sion like  a  dark  presentiment  seized  her.  Why, 
in  great  danger,  do  certain  people  seem  fated  in 
advance?  She  pressed  lightly  on  the  arm  that 
held  her  own. 

"Jean,  you  will  be  very  brave,  I  know.    Prom- 


To  Arms!  241 

ise  that  you  will  not  be  foolhardy*?  You  are 
over-excited,  imaginative.  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you  for  your  compliments,  cousin! 
...  I  realize  that  you  are  moved  by  a  solicitude 
that  does  me  honor,  but  please  do  not  spoil  my 
pleasure.  Mamma  has  already  proposed  miracu- 
lous medals  to  me  and  bullet-proof  woolen  vests. 
My  brother  offers  me  litres  of  tincture  of  iodine 
and  opium  pills.  .  .  .  Enough!  Enough!  I 
prefer  death  to  ridicule." 

In  the  grey  salon,  the  maid  brought  a  tray  of 
tea.  Nicolette  rehearsed  to  her  mother-in-law 
the  pathetic  adieus  of  the  good  German. 

"Yes,"  said  Jean,  "the  children  have  lost  their 
'guardian  angel.'  The  spy  has  gone.  .  .  ." 

Maxime  and  Nicolette  protested.  They  be- 
lieved in  Fraulein's  honesty  and  would  not  allow 
themselves  to  be  disturbed,  they  said,  by  romances 
and  silly  stories.  Jean  declared : 

"All  the  Germans  are  spies.  I  believe  in  every- 
thing; in  the  fake  advertisements,  in  the  false 
Swiss,  in  treacherous  governesses,  in  engineer 
spies.  If  fortune  fails  us,  we  shall  see  the  broth- 


242  To  Arms! 

ers  of  this  good  Lischen  coming.  They  will  know 
the  contents  of  the  cellar  and  of  your  jewel-box, 
Nicolette,  and  they  will  sleep  in  our  beds." 

Monsieur  Louis  Raynaud,  an  old  man  with 
bright  eyes  and  forcible  speech,  wore  in  his  but- 
tonhole the  green  and  black  ribbon  of  the  com- 
batants of  1870.  His  emotion  spent  itself  in 
nervous  agitation  and  he  blamed  the  government 
for  permitting  the  Germans  to  invade  France  in 
the  midst  of  peace.  Then,  Madame  Raynaud, 
seated  on  a  sofa  between  Pierre  and  Marianne, 
recalled  that  she  had  prophesied  all  these  misfor- 
tunes. 

"In  my  time,  we  did  not  confide  our  children 
to  strangers,  we  watched  our  servants,  we  .  .  ." 

She  realised  that  she  was  offending  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law and  in  a  kinder  tone,  without  finishing 
the  sentence,  she  added: 

"I  know  very  well  that  customs  change  with 
the  years.  It  is  excusable  to  be  influenced  by 
this." 

The  old  lady,  intelligent,  energetic  and  very 
pious,  had  all  the  virtues  of  the  bourgeoisie,  but 


To  Arms!  243 

also  the  prejudices.  Of  her  faded  beauty  she 
kept  a  majestic  carriage,  and  in  her  pale  plump 
face  the  eyes  still  liquid  were  not  always  con- 
siderate. She  hated  innovations  of  every  kind 
and  jeered  at  them  with  an  animosity  often  cruel. 
Loving  the  husband  who  adored  her,  she  pre- 
ferred her  sons  to  him  and  Jean  to  Maxime.  Her 
real  affection  for  the  little  children  justified  to 
her  conscience  the  harshness  she  showed  towards 
her  son's  wife.  Nicolette  bore  it  with  an  impa- 
tient, praiseworthy  deference.  There  had  been 
many  strains  between  them  and  there  had  been 
friction  between  the  sons  and  the  father.  The 
Raynaud  family  lived,  like  most  modern  families, 
in  a  state  of  "armed  peace."  The  same  spirit  of 
independence  made  the  children  oppose  the  par- 
ents, the  husband  his  wife,  and  even  affected  the 
brothers,  although  Maxime  was,  of  all  the  Ray- 
nauds,  the  most  conciliatory. 

But  on  this  evening  of  August  the  first,  the  dis- 
cussion was  only  a  means  of  escaping  tenderness, 
of  diverting  the  current  of  emotion,  of  "saving 
their  face."  Monsieur  Louis  Raynaud  deplored 


244  To  Arms! 

the  dismantling  of  the  fortresses  in  the  north  and 
feared  an  invasion  of  Belgium;  the  doctor  esti- 
mated the  strength  of  the  reserves;  Jean  dreamed 
of  a  successful  offensive;  Nicolette  wanted  a  po- 
sition as  nurse  in  a  hospital ;  Madame  Louis  Ray- 
naud  was  sure  that  irreligious  France  would  be 
regenerated  by  suffering.  And  all  of  them,  in 
speaking,  had  in  their  voices  a  tender  and  almost 
broken  inflection  contrasting  with  their  words.  A 
feeling  of  kindness  and  gentleness,  almost  of  con- 
trition, stirred  those  who  knew  that  they  were 
together  perhaps  for  the  last  time.  They  did  not 
allow  the  scene  to  become  tragic.  There  were  no 
tears  nor  phrases.  They  were  French  and  were 
as  reserved  in  their  tenderness  as  in  their  heroism. 
Le  Temps  was  brought  in  and  Monsieur  Louis 
Raynaud  read  the  latest  news  aloud:  The  visit 
of  the  German  Ambassador  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay, 
the  conversation  of  Monsieur  Klobukowski  with 
Monsieur  Davignon  and  the  reputed  assurance  of 
the  ministry  that  France,  faithful  to  its  earlier 
pledges,  would  respect  the  neutrality  of  Belgium, 
but  the  decree  of  mobilisation  was  not  in  the  five 


To  Arms!  245 

o'clock  edition  and  therefore  the  iour  large  pages 
seemed  empty. 

The  day  was  declining.  Nicolette,  without 
paint  or  powder,  her  eyes  burning,  went  to  sit  by 
Simone  who  gently  took  her  hand. 

"Be  brave !"  she  said,  very  low.  "You  are  not 
the  only  one  to  suffer,  my  poor  Nicolette.  ...  I 
too  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  we  are  all  suffering,  but  not  in  the  same 
way,"  replied  Madame  Raynaud.  "Your  heart 
is  tortured  and  yet  you  remain  calm,  and  your  sor- 
row is  without  bitterness.  You  have  not  bungled 
your  life !  You  have  not  squandered  your  youth ! 
If  your  love  is  broken,  it  has  given  you  every- 
thing, at  least,  all  its  sweetness,  all  its  joys.  .  .  . 
It  has  left  you  the  memory  of  a  perfect  and  pure 
beauty.  .  .  .  Others  have  not  had  this  luck,  Si- 
mone! .  .  .  Others  feel,  before  the  danger,  the 
price  of  lost  days.  Alas !  We  did  not  know  our 
own  souls,  we  did  not  have  time  to  understand 
them!  We  did  not  realise  that  we  might  have 
been  happy,  so  happy,  and  that  underneath  in 
the  midst  of  the  little  quarrels  and  daily  misun- 


246  To  Arms! 

derstandings,  we  really  loved  with  all  our  hearts !" 

"Since  we  know  it  now,  we  must  not  forget  it. 
.  .  Trust  in  the  future,  my  Nicolette !  .  .  ." 

Madame  Raynaud  shook  her  head : 

"The  future!  .  .  .  Can  you  say  that  word  to- 
day?" 

"I  wish  to  speak  it !  I  wish  to  perform  this  act 
of  faith,"  said  Simone.  ...  "I  have  too  much 
love  not  to  hope.  Yes,  Frangois  will  return.  .  .  . 
I  shall  see  him  again.  .  .  . 

"Don't  speak!  Don't  tempt  misfortune!" 
cried  Nicolette.  .  .  . 

She  bit  her  lips  to  choke  back  the  sobs. 

"Ah !  Simone,  if  you  knew !  .  .  .  This  morn- 
ing when  we  saw  each  other  again,  the  scene,  the 
sad  explanation!  ...  I  did  not  want  to  think 
which  of  us  was  responsible  for  our  old  misunder- 
standings; I  was  no  longer  proud  and  irritable. 
.  .  .  The  old-time  love  returned  to  my  heart. 
.  .  .  And  he  was  moved  too!  .  .  .  But  he  goes 
day  after  to-morrow  and  the  idea  of  war  intoxi- 
cates him.  What  possesses  the  men?  Is  Frangois 
the  same?  Did  you  see  that  he  is  glad  to  go?" 


To  Arms!  247 

"But  Nicolette,  have  you  thought  how  you 
would  feel  if  Jean  went  reluctantly?  Their  en- 
thusiasm hurts  us,  but  we  enjoy  it  and  are  proud 
of  them." 

Jean  approached  the  two  cousins: 

"What  are  you  plotting  by  yourselves?"  he 
said.  "I  am  afraid  that  my  wife  may  not  be  a 
Spartan  wife.  You  have  a  red  nose,  Nicolette! 
Hou!  Naughty  child!  Have  some  pluck,  for 
goodness'  sake!  You  owe  me  that!  I  want  to 
take  to  war  the  memory  of  a  pretty  woman." 

"Take  my  place,"  said  Simone,  moving  away  a 
little,  "and  comfort  this  poor  child.  She  loves 
you  more  than  you  deserve  to  be  loved." 

Jean  only  kissed  the  hand  of  his  wife  silently. 
Madame  Louis  Raynaud  sighed: 

"What  sacrifices  God  demands  of  us!  I  am 
not  a  very  old  person  and  yet  I  have  seen  two 
wars,  and  twice  I  shall  have  given  all  that  I  love 
best  in  the  world;  in  1870,  my  fiance;  in  1914, 
my  children.  I  have  endured  the  first  test,  and, 
God  willing,  I  shall  bear  the  second.  .  .  .  Listen, 
young  women!  Your  hearts  are  not  more  torn 


248  To  Arms! 

than  mine,  but  I  am  determined  not  to  break 
down.  My  sons  must  find  me  alive  when  they 
return.  .  .  ."  She  added:  "Because  they  will 
return,  as  their  father  did." 

Monsieur  Raynaud  admired  the  vigor  of  his 
old  wife  and  did  not  dare  to  show  his  secret  emo- 
tion. Because  he  had  seen  the  old  war  he  foresaw 
the  horror  of  the  new,  scientifically  planned  for 
and  executed  at  the  price  of  millions  of  men. 
And  then  having  known  defeat,  he  had  the  slight- 
ly humiliating  fear  of  possible  disaster.  He  had 
heard  it  said  for  so  long  that  France  was  wholly 
decadent,  that  anti-militarism  was  consuming  the 
army,  that  the  rich  bourgeois  thought  only  of 
pleasure  and  the  people  only  of  class  struggles. 
No  doubt,  there  would  be  an  awakening  of  the 
nation,  but  if  fortune  turned  against  it,  at  the 
beginning,  if  the  war  was  not  ended  in  three 
months,  must  it  not  fear  the  worst  disaster? 

The  placidity  of  his  sons  disconcerted  him.  He 
blamed  their  youth  and  inexperience,  and  as  he 
was  a  true  French  father,  not  solemn,  and 
very  tender,  he  had  a  great  desire  to  cry,  but 


To  Arms!  249 

refrained  for  the  sake  of  appearances  and  thought : 

"My  poor  country !    My  poor  children !  .  .  ." 

Jean  declared  that  he  would  kill  many  Boches 

and  Madame  Raynaud  privately  thanked  God 

that  Maxime  would  be  a  doctor.    Many  mothers 

would  owe  the  lives  of  their  sons  to  him ! 

The  brothers  Gardave  arrived  a  little  late.  Lu- 
cien  was  ridiculously  happy.  The  night  before, 
without  waiting  any  longer,  he  had  telegraphed 
his  father  to  ask  his  permission  to  enlist  and  had 
received  a  favorable  answer. 

"Bravo!"  said  Jean.  "It  was  fine  for  you  to 
do  that!  You  are  a  dandy  boy!" 

Bertrand  recounted  his  impressions  of  the  day. 
He  spoke  especially  to  Madame  Davesnes,  but 
she  listened  absent-mindedly.  In  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  she  interrupted: 

"I  think  that  I  hear  Frangois.  ...  At  last!" 
She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  as  her  husband  entered 
the  room,  where  the  light  was  fading,  he  saw  her 
first,  and  spoke  to  her  first: 

"Well!  It  is  settled!  I  am  going  to-mor- 
row. ." 


XVIII 

THE  dinner  was  painful  for  every  one.  The 
old  Raynauds  made  the  best  of  it,  but  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  they  were  exhausted.  Nico- 
lette  was  absorbed  in  her  passionate,  dumb  grief. 
Simone  and  Francois,  eager  to  be  alone,  dis- 
tractedly exchanged  glances.  Bertrand  de  Gar- 
dave  thought  of  his  mother  and  his  sisters  crying 
in  the  poor  castle  in  Perigord.  .  .  .  He  dreamed 
of  the  little  hills  full  of  hollow  grottoes,  of  the 
chestnut  groves  and  of  the  clear  and  rushing  Dor- 
dogne.  .  .  .  Would  he  ever  return  to  his  dear 
province?  .  .  .  Already,  he  had  offered  the 
sacrifice  of  his  life  in  the  chapel  of  Saint-Jacques- 
du-Haut-Pas  which  he  had  entered  for  a  mo- 
ment's meditation  among  the  Jansenist  shadows 
and  the  damp  ashes  of  the  great  past.  His 
brother  smiled  and  talked,  not  at  all  disturbed, 
with  a  charming  Gascon  vivacity.  This  gaiety 

on  the  part  of  Lucien  saddened  the  women.  They 

250 


To  Arms!  251 

admitted  the  duty  and  peril  for  the  men,  but  this 
little  one,  this  child  so  fresh  and  young,  who  had 
not  tasted  life,  with  the  last  maternal  caresses 
still  upon  him,  this  little  one,  they  would  have 
spared.  .  .  . 

The  blue  light  of  evening,  through  the  open 
window,  yellowed  the  glow  of  the  electric  light. 
A  basket  of  red  roses  sprayed  over  the  tablecloth 
like  a  pool  of  blood,  and  the  perfume,  in  the 
heavy  air,  seemed  funereal.  .  .  . 

At  times,  there  was  silence,  and  the  lines  in 
the  faces  no  longer  controlled  by  alert  will  power 
became  relaxed  and  aged,  all  at  once. 

Jean  tried  to  revive  the  conversation.  He  de- 
scribed his  stay  in  Pontresina,  in  a  cosmopolitan 
hotel,  where,  until  Wednesday,  July  2Qth,  peo- 
ple did  not  speak  of  France  except  to  comment 
unpleasantly  on  the  incidents  of  the  Caillaux 
trial.  No  one  expected  the  war,  but  when  they 
saw  the  notice  posted  in  the  Kursaal  announc- 
ing the  bombardment  of  Belgrade,  they  realised 
that  a  critical  moment  was  approaching.  Im- 
mediately, the  tourists  grouped  themselves  ac- 


252  To  Arms! 

cording  to  nationalities,  because  of  the  need  of 
drawing  closer  together  to  withstand  opposing 
and  already  hostile  groups. 

A  large  number  of  Germans  watched  the 
French,  who  affected  indifference.  Bridge  tables 
were  deserted  and  the  uneasy  women  no  longer 
left  their  own  countrymen. 

Thursday  evening  there  was  a  fresh  despatch, 
in  German.  "There  has  been  no  further  ultima- 
tum addressed  by  Germany  to  Russia,  but  there 
is  little  hope  of  maintaining  peace.  .  .  ."  This 
time  the  shock  was  great.  ...  A  Frenchman  de- 
clared, in  a  loud  voice:  "France  does  not  permit 
any  one  to  send  her  an  ultimatum."  The  others 
approved  before  the  German  officers.  Immedi- 
ately they  all  made  plans  for  the  journey.  They 
rushed  to  the  hotel  office,  and  there,  during  quite 
a  long  wait,  Germans  and  French,  side  by  side, 
seemed  more  at  ease,  because  everything  had  be- 
come sincere.  The  masks  fell.  They  were  able 
to  speak  at  last  with  great  mutual  courtesy.  The 
Germans  were  sure  of  themselves.  .  .  .  Evident- 
ly, the  cause  of  the  war — the  French  said,  the 


To  Arms!  253 

pretext — is  absurd,  but  it  would  be  interesting  to 
fight.  They  were  able  to  compare  the  artillery 
of  the  two  countries  and  the  respective  merits  of 
of  the  "75"  guns  and  heavy  cannon.  .  .  .  The 
conversation  relieved  the  tedium  of  waiting.  .  .  . 
But  the  Friday  following,  everything  was 
changed.  The  veneer  of  politeness  had  cracked. 
The  Germans  emphasised  their  military  conven- 
tions: their  relations  were  modified  according  to 
their  rank;  one  could  see  who  gave  way  to  the 
others  and  who  ignored  the  rest,  the  vulgar  herd 
of  inferiors.  They  commented  on  the  news,  vio- 
lently. .  .  . 

And  in  the  train,  between  the  Engadine  and 
Basle,  they  did  not  conceal  their  aggressiveness. 
When  the  Swiss  employes  did  not  attend  to  their 
demands  satisfactorily,  they  announced:  "You 
will  pay  up  for  this,  next  year,  when  Switzer- 
land will  be  German.  .  .  ."  With  us,  they 
were  quieter.  There  was  a  certain  timidity  in 
their  insolence.  .  .  .  Moreover,  they  were  con- 
vinced that  France  was  rotten.  .  .  .  One  of  them, 
a  colonel,  said  to  me:  "Still,  apparently  your 


254  To  Arms! 

army  has  made  some  progress.  ..."  I  assured 
him  that  he  would  shortly  realise  it.  Then,  after 
a  little  silence  :  .  .  .  "What  can  we  do  about  it?" 
he  said,  "war  is  a  scourge,  but  we  need  colonies." 

"Let  them  come  and  take  them!"  exclaimed 
Lucien  de  Gardave.  "The  thieves,  the  bandits 
the  .  .  ." 

The  terrible  denunciation  he  could  not  control 
made  every  one  laugh.  His  handsome  rosy 
cheeks  grew  purple. 

"Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  we  hear  the 
truth,"  said  Francois. 

Monsieur  Raynaud  shook  his  white  head. 

"Are  we  ready"?    That  is  the  question." 

"Our  spirits  are  ready,"  replied  Bertrand. 

"That  is  not  enough,  my  friend.  We  must  have 
cannon,  guns,  ammunition  and  a  scientific  com- 
missary department.  ...  If  you  had  only  seen 
1870!  .  .  ." 

Frangois  said  that  one  could  not  compare 
France  at  the  end  of  the  Empire  with  the  France 
which,  for  several  years,  had  proudly  risen  again 
and  felt  her  old  vigor  returning  to  her  younger 


To  Arms!  255 

members.  Bertrand  de  Gardave  had  expressed 
it  exactly:  their  spirits  were  ready. 

"We  do  not  make  war  with  our  spirits." 

"But,  without  them,  war  leads  to  disaster.  In 
1870,  all  the  nation  did  not  rally  to  the  flag;  opin- 
ions did  not  agree;  faith  was  lacking.  Cer- 
tainly, our  organisation  is  better  than  it  was,  al- 
though it  may  still  be  inferior  to  the  German  or- 
ganisation. .  .  .  Fortunately,  the  French  genius 
is  capable  of  marvellous  inventions.  .  .  ." 

"You  are  confident1?"  demanded  the  old  man. 

"Absolutely  confident." 

Frangois  repeated  the  surprise  he  had  had  in 
the  evidence  of  the  sincere  patriotism  of  his  work- 
men. 

He  had  heard  of  the  mobilisation  at  five  o'clock, 
from  a  factory  gatekeeper  who  had  seen  the  offi- 
cial telegram  displayed  in  the  post-office.  In  the 
nearly  dark  office,  where  they  had  gathered  around 
the  directors,  the  head  men  and  the  engineers 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  .  .  .  Very  simply, 
in  the  quiet  of  the  almost  deserted  building,  they 
had  taken  leave  of  each  other.  ...  A  hand  grasp, 


256  To  Arms! 

a  wish  of  good  luck.  .  .  .  No  conversation.  .  .  . 
Each  one  had  gone  to  the  pay-office  and  the  em- 
ployes, from  the  humblest  whom  Francois  had 
never  seen,  were  come  spontaneously  to  say  "good- 
by"  to  him.  This  sympathy  had  touched  him. 

"In  returning  to  the  station  I  was  almost  alone. 
I  looked  at  the  darkened  facade,  a  bit  of  the  canal 
reflecting  the  sky,  the  things  I  had  seen  every  even- 
ing for  two  years,  and  which  had  meant  to  me 
the  close  of  daily  work,  liberty,  the  first  stage  of 
return  home  ...  I  thought:  'When  shall  I  see 
it  again?  .  .  .'  The  station  was  quiet.  The 
Zouaves  mounted  guard  on  the  bridge.  The  train 
arrived.  In  my  car  there  were  two  young  men  and 
a  little  dressmaker  who  was  very  anxious  to  ex- 
plain to  her  parents  the  lark  she  had  had  all  the 
afternoon  with  the  aforesaid  lads.  For  them  the 
war  did  not  yet  exist.  .  .  .  Often,  the  train 
stopped,  leaving  the  line  free  for  other  trains 
going  towards  the  points  of  concentration.  At 
last,  I  arrived  in  Paris,  very  late.  I  was 
struck  by  the  look  of  the  streets:  no  gaiety, 
no  enthusiasm,  no  dejection,  but  movement 


To  Arms!  257 

and  action,  and,  in  the  crowd  were  officers 
in  service  outfits,  a  blanket  over  their  shoulders. 
On  the  Pont  de  PEurope,  I  stopped  a  moment  to 
look  at  the  interior  of  the  Saint-Lazare  station. 
From  that  point,  slightly  elevated,  from  which  the 
streets  appeared  to  descend,  I  suddenly  had  the 
sense  of  a  great  change.  .  .  .  Paris  was  no  longer 
the  Paris  I  had  left  in  the  morning.  .  .  .  All  of 
her  complex  life,  divided  into  thousands  and 
thousands  of  interests,  had  now  but  one  mind  and 
one  object.  .  .  .  Then,  I  was  seized  with  a  sort 
of  intoxication,  in  which  there  was  neither  pleas- 
ure nor  trouble,  not  even  enthusiasm,  but  much 
more  than  emotion:  an  intoxication  affecting  my 
brain  and  not  my  nerves  and  yet  exciting  my 
breast.  I  was  actually  drunk  with  the  idea  that  I 
was  living  through  a  unique  evening,  greater  than 
all  of  the  evenings  experienced  since  my  birth,  and 
which  would  not  have  its  like  in  all  the  evenings 
to  come  until  my  death.  .  .  .  And  then,  I  thought 
of  nothing  but  you,  my  friends,  and  of  Si- 
mone  and  I  hurried  to  this  house  like  a  school- 
boy .  .  ." 


258  To  Arms! 

"Well!"  said  Jean,  "hearing  of  the  mobilisa- 
tion through  the  noises  in  the  street,  did  not  give 
me  the  shock  I  had  last  night  on  the  frontier,  when 
they  said :  'The  Germans  have  held  up  the  French 
locomotives  in  Alsace,'  and  especially  when  I  saw 
this  morning,  the  first  French  sentinel  near  a  via- 
duct. The  silhouette,  the  military  attitude,  and 
the  sharp  outline  of  the  bayonet  against  the  blue 
of  the  dawn!  It  was  beautiful  enough  to  make 
one  weep!  And  the  trains  of  reservists  passing, 
the  soldiers  at  the  car  doors,  the  serene  energy  of 
these  men  who  did  not  sing!  .  .  .  Often  the  mo- 
bilised men,  going  to  their  depot,  delayed  our 
train.  They  were  men  from  the  East.  They  ex- 
cused themselves  for  inconveniencing  us  a  little. 
They  were  calm.  One  of  them  said :  'The  Boches 
have  tormented  us  for  a  long  time,  Monsieur. 
...  It  must  stop.  We  understand  that  it  must 
stop.  .  .  .  Our  children  must  have  peace.  .  .  . 
For  us,  the  worst  is  behind  us.  We  have  left  our 
home.  Now,  we  are  not  thinking  any  more  about 
it.  ...  It  is  true,  isn't  it,  that  the  government 
will  not  let  our  families  die  7'  Others  looked  at 


To  Arms!  259 

the  country,  the  ripe  wheat,  the  woods  veiled  in 
a  thin  mist.  .  .  .  They  noticed,  no  doubt  for 
the  first  time,  the  beauty  of  the  country-side.  .  .  . 
'All  the  same,  it  would  be  dreadful  to  let  the 
swine  spoil  our  beautiful  France.'  I  repeat  the 
phrase  exactly.  Never  has  a  burst  of  academic 
eloquence  given  me  more  pleasure  than  this 
phrase." 

After  dinner,  the  old  Raynauds  went  home. 
Jean  and  Nicolette  were  to  spend  the  next  day 
with  them.  Then,  the  Gardave  brothers  wished 
to  go  in  their  turn. 

Bertrand  pressed  his  lips  to  Simone's  hand. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  we  shall  see  each  other 
again,  Madame,  but  I  shall  think  of  you,  in  trying 
hours,  because  you  have  helped  me  to  understand 
and  to  love  France.  .  .  .  Does  that  surprise  you? 
.  .  .  Oh !  It  is  very  simple.  .  .  .  But  I  have  not 
the  right  to  explain  myself  further.  Believe  me, 
and  do  not  forget  me  entirely." 

He  admired  the  blonde  hair,  the  fine  features, 
the  intelligent  eyes,  shading  blue  and  grey  like  the 


260  To  Arms! 

Seine  under  the  changeable  sky  of  Paris,  the  ten- 
der smile  and  the  quiet  grace  and  air  of  passion 
and  of  modesty,  making  him  think  of  the  prin- 
cesses of  Racine.  In  a  flash,  he  imagined  this 
woman  attacked  by  the  enemy — and  he  knew  that 
he  would  gladly  die  to  defend  her. 

"Farewell,  Madame!" 

"Until  me  meet  again,  Bertrand !" 

That  was  all.  When  the  two  young  men  had 
gone,  Francois  and  Simone  spoke  of  leaving,  but 
Nicolette  begged  them  to  wait  five  minutes.  She 
was  going  upstairs  on  account  of  the  children,  and 
she  would  come  back.  .  .  . 

Maxime  took  Frangois  to  the  smoking-room  to 
give  him  some  practical  advice,  and  write  a  pre- 
scription. Simone  and  Jean  remained  alone. 

Nicolette's  husband  then  said: 

"I  have  a  request  to  make  of  you,  my  little 
cousin,  and  perhaps  I  may  not  have  another  chance 
to  speak  to  you  frankly.  It  is  this:  I  confide 
Nicollete  to  you.  It  is  not  a  question  of  the 
children.  My  brother  will  be  happy  to  interest 
himself  in  them.  But,  for  Nicolette,  neither  he 


To  Arms!  261 

nor  my  parents  nor  my  mother-in-law  are  able  to 
do  anything.  You  alone  can  do  much.  .  .  . 
Promise  me  then  to  love  this  poor  woman,  like  a 
real  sister." 

"I  promise  you,  Jean,  but  why?  .  .  ." 

"Because  your  promise  will  lighten  my  remorse 
a  little.  .  .  .  You  know,  Nicolette  has  not  been 
very  happy.  I  feel  myself  responsible  for  the  dis- 
illusion that  has  come  to  her  in  marriage — and 
even  for  what  has  come  to  me  in  the  same  way. 
...  I  was  mistaken  in  supposing  that  I  could 
make  a  good  husband  and  father  of  a 
family.  .  .  ." 

"Oh !  Jean,  if  you  desire  it  seriously,  after  the 
war,  you  can  regain  your  happiness.  It  is  cracked ; 
it  is  not  broken.  .  .  ." 

"Alas!  I  should  not  repair  this  precious  por- 
celain. .  .  .  What  happens  in  novels,  my  dear 
Simone,  is  exceptional  in  life.  ...  I  shall  not 
suddenly  acquire  all  the  domestic  virtues  because 
I  have  risked  my  life.  .  .  .  My  act  would  have 
to  be  a  sacrifice.  But  whatever  happens  no  one 
owes  me  either  admiration  or  pity.  .  .  .  Open 


262  To  Arms! 

your  beautiful  eyes  wide !  .  .  .  Shake  your  head. 
It  is  so.  .  .  .  I  regret  nothing,  absolutely  nothing. 
The  life  I  have  lived  has  been  vain  and  absurd. 
I  have  a  taste  for  risk  and  adventure.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly, adventure  offers  itself  to  me — the  most 
splendid  of  all !  I  am  happy,  I  feel  myself  free 
and  young,  and  I  go  to  war  as  I  would  to  an  ad- 
venture in  love.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  shall  fight  for 
France  and  also  for  pleasure.  .  .  .  There  is  an 
immense  egoism  in  my  courage.  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Nicolette!"  said  Simone,  softly.  .  .  . 
"How  I  pity  her!" 

In  the  smoking-room,  Maxime  whispered. 
Simone  overheard  occasional  words. 

"If  you  are  wounded  in  the  chest.  .  .  ." 

Jean  wanted  to  kiss  her  hand  as  a  sign  of  grati- 
tude. He  felt  sure  that  it  was  icy  cold.  .  .  . 


XIX 

Rue  de  Rome  at  night.  The  whistle  of 
•*•  locomotives  in  the  cutting  seems  to  make 
the  sky  quiver  as  it  is  rent  with  flashes  of  still 
lightning.  Simone  and  Francois,  moved  by  the 
fraternal  leave-taking  of  Maxime  and  of  Jean, 
walk  close  together.  Often,  in  dark  places,  they 
slacken  their  steps.  Their  lips  meet  in  a  profound 
kiss,  where  the  trace  of  bitter  tears  still  lingers! 
.  .  .  They  speak  with  difficulty.  Simone  thinks 
of  trifling  matters — that  the  key  of  Francois's 
canteen  does  not  work  well,  and  she  remembers 
that  the  railway  time-table  is  lost.  .  .  . 

"How  will  you  be  able  to  lunch  en  route?  .  .  . 
Have  you  taken  the  prescription  Maxime  wrote 
for  you?  .  .  .  You  will  telegraph  me  at  once  on 
arriving  at  Besangon*?" 

He  replies  no  matter  what.  .  .  .  She  does  not 

listen,  for  she  is  speaking  to  herself  to  divert  her 

263 


264  To  Arms! 

thoughts.  .  .  .  And  at  times  she  shivers  all  over 
and  sighs: 

"Ah!    God  help  me!" 

"Simone !  my  beloved !  .  .  ." 

"If  we  could  waken  to-morrow  and  find  that  we 
had  dreamed  it  all!" 

"Be  calm,  dearest!  .  .  .  Dearest!  .  .  .  Put 
your  cheek  against  my  shoulder.  .  .  .  There. 
.  .  .  Don't  speak.  .  .  .  Let  me  lead  you." 

This  distracted  suffering  raving  at  his  side  tor- 
tures Frangois.  He  understands  that  the  reaction 
is  the  result  of  the  long  strain  of  the  day,  and  that 
Simone  is  paying  the  price  of  her  courage.  He 
admires  her  because  she  was  able  to  control  herself 
at  the  Raynauds'.  Since  they  have  been  alone, 
outside,  she  has  become  nervously  unstrung. 

He  does  not  know  the  exact  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing train.  Simone  asserts: 

"The  summer  express  goes  about  eleven 
o'clock.  .  .  ." 

He  is  doubtful  about  it,  and  when  they  reach 
the  Place  du  Havre,  he  suggests  that  they  should 
go  into  a  cafe  to  consult  a  time-table.  In  the 


To  Arms!  265 

brighter  light,  in  the  presence  of  others,  Simone 
recovers  herself.  .  .  .  She  searches  the  pages  her- 
self. .  .  .  She  was  mistaken. 

"The  express  leaves  for  Dijon  at  nine  o'clock, 
where  it  waits  to  make  connections." 

"Very  well!    I  shall  go  at  nine  o'clock.  .  .  ." 

"Why  not  to-morrow  evening1?" 

"But  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  choose  my 
train.  ...  It  is  not  a  pleasure  trip  that  I  am  un- 
dertaking. .  .  ." 

She  makes  no  protest.  He  takes  her  through 
the  streets.  People  read  the  proclamation  of  the 
Municipal  Council.  They  speak  louder  and  more 
freely  than  on  the  previous  evening.  Many 
Parisians  are  going  hastily  in  search  of  friends 
whose  arrangements  for  military  service  they  do 
not  know  exactly  and  who  may  easily  be  leaving 
the  next  day.  There  are  families  dragging  their 
sleepy  or  excited  children,  and  lovers  clinging  to- 
gether and  kissing.  During  the  day,  the  men  have 
lived  intensely,  virily,  with  all  their  fighting  en- 
ergies. During  this  supreme  night  now  beginning, 
they  are  going  to  live  as  lovers,  as  husbands,  with 


266  To  Arms! 

all  the  power  of  the  heart  and  flesh.  Night  gives 
them  back  to  woman.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  brutality  in  the  ardor  burning  in 
their  blood.  Almost  always  tenderness  has  a  part 
in  it.  Handsome  couples  become  pathetic  partly 
because  of  their  beauty.  And  others,  without 
charm  and  without  elegance,  are  no  less  touching. 
Worn-out  wives,  husbands  with  ordinary  faces, 
hold  each  other  awkwardly  by  the  arm,  and  com- 
monplace among  the  commonplace,  are  raised 
above  themselves  by  the  sacred  emotion  of  the  mo- 
ment. The  shadow  of  hovering  death  ennobles 
their  humility.  They  revive  caresses  forgotten 
since  their  honey-moon.  The  child  is  with  them, 
but  this  evening  the  child  no  longer  belongs  to  its 
mother.  If  they  are  walking,  the  father  holds  it 
by  the  hand;  if  it  is  too  small  to  walk,  the  father 
carries  it  on  his  free  arm,  against  his  heart.  The 
instinct  of  perpetuity  cheers  him  and  the  soldier 
going  to  fight,  certain  of  not  dying  wholly,  con- 
soles himself  because  his  descendants  will  not 
know  war. 

The  families  separate  themselves  in  the  crowd, 


To  Arms!  267 

the  father,  mother  and  little  ones,  huddled  in  an 
isolated  group.  In  the  same  way  birds  seek  their 
nest  together  when  a  hawk  threatens  to  attack 
them. 

The  wide  avenue  was  bathed  in  night.  The 
gas  of  the  street  lamps  gave  to  the  plane  trees  be- 
hind them  a  hard  artificial  green,  making  the  de- 
serted sidewalks  seem  more  desolate.  Not  a  soul 
was  in  the  little  street.  Madame  Anselme's  door 
was  half  open  under  the  ruddy  light  of  the  lamp. 
The  black  velvety  cats  crept  along  craftily. 

Simone  whispered: 

"Do  you  remember  our  return  last  winter,  the 
dry  cold  stinging  my  eyes,  and  how  I  held  your 
hand  in  my  muff?  .  .  .  You  said  'We  shall  be 
comfortable,  very  soon.  .  .  .'  and  you  took  off  my 
wraps  yourself.  ...  It  is  ended,  our  joy,  ended 
for  a  long  time.  .  .  .  To-morrow  evening,  I  shall 
come  back  alone,  I  shall  pass  here  where  we  are 
walking,  quite  alone.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  said.    "Don't  take  away 


268  To  Arms! 

my  strength.  You  will  never  know  what  it  costs 
me." 

At  home,  in  the  vestibule,  they  clung  together 
and  without  separating  went  to  their  room.  The 
globe  in  the  ceiling,  covered  with  flowered  ma- 
terial, lighted  them  and  in  the  faint  glow  the  ob- 
jects seemed  filled  with  intimate  poetry.  A  wel- 
come emanated  from  them  like  a  perfume.  How 
charming  the  old  cotton  prints  were  with  their 
blue  country  scenes  and  their  temples,  colonnades 
and  sheep  folds  arranged  on  a  creamy  white  back- 
ground !  How  friendly  it  was,  the  nut-brown  fur- 
niture, with  its  glossy  leather  in  leafy  patterns. 
On  the  night-table,  Marie  had  put  the  lamp  with 
the  bent  standard,  a  water-bottle,  and  some  books. 
And  she  had  laid  Simone's  long  filmy  gown  on  the 
folded  point  of  the  turned-down  bedclothes.  De- 
lightful lover's  room,  too  small  now  for  a  cradle, 
but  soon  to  seem  so  vast  and  empty !  .  .  . 

Both  of  them,  overcome  by  the  same  regret, 
thought  with  silent  dismay  of  the  indefinite  series 
of  future  evenings,  such  solitary  evenings ! 


To  Arms!  269 

All  at  once,  a  little  clock  struck  and  Simone 
cried  suddenly:  "Eleven  o'clock!" 

Was  it  possible1?  They  had  only  eight  hours 
more  to  be  together,  before  the  departure  of  Fran- 
gois!  And  nothing  was  ready  for  him! 

He  said  that  he  must  write  some  letters,  con- 
firming certain  arrangements  he  had  made  for  Si- 
mone's  sake,  because  one  never  knows  what  may 
happen.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  pale,  "One  never  knows  what  may 
happen!  .  .  .  Alas!  One  knows  only  too  well, 
now!" 

She  went  to  get  Francois's  canteen  and  brought 
it  back  to  the  room.  It  was  an  old  one  with  a 
poor  fastening,  which  Frangois  on  leaving  the  ser- 
vice had  not  wanted  to  replace.  Then,  in  the 
bottom  of  a  chest  they  found  the  old  uniforms 
carefully  folded  and  packed  in  camphor. 

"We'll  leave  the  windows  open,"  said  Simone. 
"The  odor  will  quickly  evaporate." 

On  the  lounge,  on  the  arm-chairs,  she  spread 
out  the  dark  military  clothes,  trimmed  with  red 
bands.  She  was  astounded  because  they  seemed 


270  To  Arms! 

heavy  in  her  hands.  She  was  hardly  able  to  un- 
fold the  thick,  stiff  cloak ! 

"Do  you  think  that  you  will  wear  it  again, 
Fran9ois<?  Do  you  remember  that  you  looked  at 
it  regretfully,  when  you  helped  me  fold  it  to 
crowd  it  into  the  box  two  years  ago*?" 

"It  is  an  old  servant  and  has  weathered  many 
storms !  We  pushed  it  into  retirement  too  quickly, 
but  it  is  like  me,  still  good  for  active  serv- 
ice. .  .  ." 

While  the  young  wife  ransacked  the  wardrobe, 
Francois  seated  himself  at  his  desk.  From  time 
to  time  Simone  went  to  him.  She  consulted  him : 
Where  should  she  put  this  thing?  .  .  .  What 
should  she  do  with  the  others? 

"I  do  not  find  your  field-glasses." 

"In  the  cupboard,  on  the  third  shelf,  with  the 
revolver.  .  .  .  My  sabre  is  below.  .  .  ." 

He  continued  writing.  Simone  went  away 
slowly  without  taking  her  eyes  from  his  beloved 
form,  his  head  covered  with  rough  hair,  his  profile 
clean-cut  as  bronze.  When  Francois  had  finished 
writing,  he  called  her  to  him.  He  gave  her  an 


To  Arms!  271 

account-book,  letters,  a  list  of  necessary  shopping 
for  her  to  do,  a  small  sum  of  gold  he  had  col- 
lected and  the  key  of  his  private  drawer.  And 
steadily,  with  the  precision  which  was  a  part  of 
all  the  acts  of  his  life,  he  gave  her  advice.  The 
war  might  be  long.  .  .  .  She  must  resist  the  de- 
moralising influences  of  solitude  and  revery;  she 
must  act,  working  for  herself  and  for  others.  .  .  . 
In  the  hospitals  or  in  relief  work,  which  would  in- 
crease, a  woman  like  Simone  could  find  opportu- 
nities for  usefulness.  .  .  .  He  took  her  on  his 
knees  and  felt  her  tremble  all  over,  fragile  and 
ardent,  her  head  turned  away,  choked  with  sighs. 
A  delicate  perfume  emanated  from  her  skin,  her 
dress  and  her  ashen  hair.  Under  the  fabrics,  her 
exquisite  form  moved  gracefully.  Francois 
thought  of  the  hours  he  had  held  her  in  this  way 
and  the  rapture  of  their  mutual  joy  and  the  bonds 
joining  them  together,  ties  of  devotion  and  tender- 
ness, of  passion  and  of  pleasure,  bonds  which  cus- 
tom had  strengthened  instead  of  weakening.  Si- 
mone was  his  companion  and  his  friend,  but  she 
was  also  his  sweetheart.  She  was  a  part  of  him- 


272  To  Arms! 

self,  like  the  power  by  which  he  moved,  like  the 
marrow  of  his  bones  and  the  blood  of  his  heart. 

She  did  not  know,  the  well-beloved,  through 
what  alternations  of  courage  and  of  weakness  he 
had  passed;  he,  the  apparently  imperturbable 
stoic ! 

She  did  not  know  that  he  was  consumed  with 
anxiety  over  leaving  her  in  this  way,  and  that  out 
there  where  his  duty  called  him,  he  would  know 
all  the  tortures  of  solicitous  homesickness.  She 
did  not  know  that  for  this  soldier  ready  to  die 
and  die  nobly,  the  sacrifice  represented  a  super- 
human effort.  And  she  never  would  know.  She 
would  never  be  able  to  realise  the  suffering  of  him 
who  refused  even  in  the  emotion  of  their  parting, 
to  weaken  her  or  himself. 

She  listened,  pressed  to  his  heart  and  she  re- 
membered. She  recalled  the  years  of  her  sad 
childhood,  her  dreary  and  limited  youth,  and  then 
the  beautiful  golden  autumn  when  she  had  finally 
begun  to  live;  she  saw  once  more  the  walk  in  the 
park,  the  bench  under  the  elm,  and  Francois  be- 
side her,  while  the  friendly  twilight  concealed 


To  Arms!  273 

their  first  kiss.  And  she  remembered  also  the  lit- 
tle apartment  which  she  had  found  on  their  re- 
turn from  the  wedding  journey,  partly  furnished 
and  in  absurd  disorder.  She  could  hear  Frangois 
saying  as  they  entered : 

"Unhappiness  will  never  enter  here  through 
my  fault." 

Their  love  had  been  so  simple,  so  brave  in  the 
face  of  life,  so  pure  even  in  its  fervor!  Simone 
and  Francois  loved  as  one  breathes,  from  vital  ne- 
cessity. Nature  and  chance  had  created  in  them 
one  of  those  unions  rarely  experienced  by  human 
beings,  so  rarely  that  the  majority  of  men  speak 
of  them  with  a  touch  of  irony,  concealing  under 
a  mask  of  scepticism  a  regret  they  do  not  confess. 
And  this  love,  this  beautiful  innocent  thing, 
spreading  joy  everywhere  by  its  mere  existence, 
might  be  destroyed,  like  so  many  other  joys,  easily 
or  with  difficulty  produced  by  the  unconquerable 
patience  of  women.  Happiness  of  old  mothers 
leaning  on  their  sons,  happiness  of  young  mothers 
bending  over  the  cradles  of  their  babies,  happi- 
ness of  married  couples,  happiness  of  lovers,  poor 


274  To  Arms! 

nests  now  to  be  overturned  by  the  storm  and  tram- 
pled on  by  the  horde.  .  .  .  And  why.  .  .  .  Why 
should  men,  their  short  lives  threatened  by  a 
thousand  evils,  enrage  each  other,  instead  of  help- 
ing to  make  life  better  for  every  one"?  Why 
should  the  ferocious  pride  and  cupidity  of  a  peo- 
ple bring  them  to  universal  butchery1?  Why  was 
this  crime  not  punished  by  Eternal  Justice  as  soon 
as  it  was  conceived  in  any  mind,  as  soon  as  any 
will  prepared  to  execute  it"?  If  it  were  accom- 
plished to  the  very  end,  to  the  ruin  of  France,  in 
a  flood  of  fire  and  blood,  would  it  not  mean  the 
failure  of  all  morality,  of  all  religion,  of  the  great 
struggle  for  the  good  that  humanity  has  been  la- 
boriously making  for  centuries? 

These  thoughts  made  Simone  almost  cry  out 
with  despair!  But  she  clenched  her  delicate  fin- 
gers and  bit  her  lips.  A  fury  seized  her,  mingled 
with  her  woman's  grief,  a  powerless  rage  she  had 
never  known  until  this  night.  Her  soul,  not 
formed  for  hatred,  was  learning  to  hate.  .  .  . 

She  wished  that  a  catastrophe  would  entirely  an- 

• 

nihilate  Germany;  she  called  down  death  on  the 


To  Arms!  275 

Kaiser  and  every  one  belonging  to  him,  and, 
shrinking  with  agony  before  the  future,  she  took 
refuge  on  the  strong  heart  of  the  being  she  cher- 
ished, who  was  still  with  her  for  a  little  while,  for 
half  a  night. 

She  whispered: 

"I  have  only  you!" 

It  was  true.  Other  women  had  parents,  chil- 
dren, sisters  and  brothers.  .  .  .  Simone  was  alone 
in  the  world  as  Frangois  was  alone ! 

"I  have  nothing  but  you !  .  .  .  I  have  nothing 
but  you!  .  .  ."  She  repeated  in  a  kind  of  delir- 
ium. .  .  . 

He  tried  to  quiet  her.  But  when  he  wanted 
to  explain  to  her  the  arrangements  he  had  made, 
and  how  she  might  live  "In  case  of  misfortune" 
she  smothered  him  with  a  caress.  .  .  . 

"No !    I  do  not  care  to  hear  you.  .  .  ." 

"But  it  is  necessary." 

"No!  ...  No!  ..."  she  cried,  sobbing.  "No! 
I  do  not  wish  it.  ...  You  imagine  that  I  would 
survive  you?  .  .  .  Do  you  not  love  as  I  love*? 
...  I  let  you  go,  I  give  you  to  France,  but  if  I 


276  To  Arms! 

lose  you,  I  shall  not  need  to  sigh  for  death.  .  .  ." 
From  what  depths  did  this  woman's  cry  arise! 
How  she  suffered,  how  the  frail  Simone,  this  ten- 
der Simone,  this  dear  Simone  would  suffer,  whom 
Frangois  would  protect  from  sorrow,  even  at  the 
price  of  martyrdom !  Truly,  he  did  not  renounce 
for  one  second  the  old  idea  of  hoaor  which  was 
for  him  instinctive;  his  will  did  not  waver  a  sec- 
ond !  he  did  not  cease  to  be  himself,  but  his  lacer- 
ated feelings  uttered  a  secret  moan.  .  .  .  He  ex- 
perienced in  a  wave  of  emotion  all  the  terrors  of 
separation  and  death,  and  pressing  the  adored 
form  to  him  he  cried,  he  too,  without  shame,  a 
man's  tears,  rare  and  slow,  flowing  with  difficulty 
and  giving  greater  evidence  of  suffering  than  the 
blood  flowing  from  a  wound. 


XX 

HE  slept  now,  broken,  on  Simone"s  "breast,  be- 
tween her  arms,  beneath  her  hair. 
•A  rumble,  a  heavy  clasp,  then  a  tremendous 
crash  made  the  heavens  resound.  The  phosphor- 
escence cast  a  blue  light  on  the  shades.  The 
storm,  after  threatening  for  three  days,  broke 
forth  at  last.  Flashes  of  lightning  crossed  over 
Paris.  .  .  .  Francois  trembled  in  his  sleep.  Did 
he  dream  of  attacking  armies?  Did  he  hear  the 
caa'Mon  roar"?  Simone  laid  her  hand  on  his  fever- 
isi  '<  orehead  where  his  thought  vaguely  kept  vigil. 

Sleep,    my    beloved!  .  .  .  Sleep!  .  .  .  For- 

gr     > 

$"he  did  not  forget,  and  thinking  of  the  sad 
hfv  >iness  that  they  had  drained  to  its  last  dregs, 
sh  iid  to  herself  that  in  all  of  the  homes  in  in- 
ni^  icrable  towns,  men  and  women  loved  each 
other,  intoxicated  with  tears  and  caresses,  during 
the  stormy  night.  This  din  of  thunder  in  the  hea- 
vens, a  bad  omen,  concealed, — so  that  the  God 

277 


278  To  Arms! 

of  pity  might  not  hear — human  sobs  and  tender- 
ness. But  love  was  preparing  its  retaliation.  The 
web  of  life,  about  to  break  in  so  many  places,  re- 
newed elsewhere  the  sacred  fabric  of  the  future. 
From  these  farewells,  a  whole  race  would  be  born, 
and  France  of  the  future  renewed. 

Strangely  calm,  Simone  looked  at  Francois. 
She  did  not  cry  any  more ;  she  had  passed  beyond 
that  stage  of  revolt  and  of  despair,  and  reached 
the  depth  of  supreme  suffering  where  serenity  is 
found.  Motionless,  she  heard  the  quick  sounds 
of  thunder  grow  more  distant.  The  darkness 
faded.  The  sparrows  in  the  chestnuts  saluted  the 
dawn. 

The  dawn  came  and  the  sun  threw  a  thin  ar- 
row of  gold  through  the  crack  in  the  blinds.  Blue 
swains,  under  blue  porticoes,  arranged  themselves 
in  a  pattern  with  their  flutes  and  their  garlands. 
Outside,  a  cart  rattled  in  a  silence  like  Sunday 
morning  and  the  bells  rang  for  the  first  mass. 

Simone  kissed  Francois's  eyes  to  waken  him, 
that  the  terrible  day  might  begin  happily.  They 
had  begun,  in  this  way,  for  two  years,  all  the  joy- 


To  Arms!  279 

ous  days  of  their  lives. '  And  in  a  voice  that  did 
not  tremble,  she  said: 

"My  beloved,  the  hour  has  come." 
For  the  last  time,  she  arranged  her  husband's 
garments  herself;  for  the  last  time  she  served  the 
tea  in  the  tiny  dining-room.  .  .  .  What  meaning 
was  given  to  the  smallest  acts,  what  tenderness 
was  connected  with  the  most  ordinary  objects! 
All  the  house  seemed  a  living  thing  that  in  some 
unknown  way  suffered  in  sympathy  with  those 
who  lived  in  it.  Frangois  looked  at  the  slight 
crack  in  the  cup,  a  cloth  Simone  had  embroidered, 
a  faded  bouquet  he  had  bought  two  evenings  be- 
fore, the  books  lying  about,  the  play  of  a  sun- 
beam in  a  mirror,  a  small  defect  in  the  wall-paper, 
the  nothings — the  nothings  that  recall  everything, 
when  they  are  remembered  far  away.  .  .  . 
He  thought: 

"My  home !  .  .  .  My  wife !  .  .  ." 
All  of  his  worldly  possessions,  all  of  his  rea- 
sons   for   living   were   contained   in    those    four 
words !    But  he  accepted  the  great  reason  for  dy- 
ing, tearing  him  from  Simone  and  from  his  hearth. 


280  To  Arms! 

He  already  saw  them  only  as  a  small  speck  in  the 
new  world  he  was  entering,  where  he  himself  was 
only  a  soldier,  lost  among  millions  of  soldiers.  His 
individual  existence  had  become  entirely  negli- 
gible. He  renounced  it  without  effort,  with  a 
fierce  joy,  although  the  torture  of  the  separation 
remained.  But  this  torture  affected  only  his  heart 
and  flesh.  It  did  not  touch  his  will,  wholly  sat- 
isfied, perfectly  calm,  in  the  midst  of  the  worst 
troubles. 

He  was  also  strengthened  because  of  Simone's 
attitude,  which  no  longer  betrayed  any  weakness. 

She  was  very  solicitous  about  the  carriage 
which  would  be  difficult  to  get,  and  because  Ma- 
rie Pourat  was  late.  Then  Frangois  proposed  that 
they  should  go  to  the  Avenue  for  an  auto  or  an 
ordinary  cab,  which  they  could  keep  waiting  for 
them.  They  went  out  together.  The  air  had 
cleared.  A  lavender  and  golden  light,  the  misty 
light  which  floats  like  crayon  dust  over  Paris  in 
the  early  morning,  caressed  the  little  street.  There 
were  no  more  masons  in  the  stoneyard;  no  em- 
ployees nor  dressmakers  were  going  toward  the 


To  Arms!  281 

neighboring  subway  station.  They  certainly 
felt,  in  spite  of  all,  that  the  day  was  a  Sunday  and 
they  met  women  with  new  hats  going  to  church. 
The  Gouge  grocery  was  open,  but  Madame  An- 
selme's  shop  was  closed. 

On  the  Avenue,  Frangois  stopped  a  newsboy. 
The  paper  he  bought  had  a  final  paragraph: 

"Germany  has  declared  war  on  Russia" 

The  news  was  not  unexpected,  and  the  blow 
they  had  seen  coming  disconcerted  no  one.  After 
the  great  shock  of  the  mobilisation,  the  nerves  of 
the  French  were  sufficiently  braced  to  endure, 
without  giving  way,  any  subsequent  shocks.  Si- 
mone  only  said: 

"Our  turn  will  come  soon." 

As  they  walked,  her  eyes  ran  over  the  pages 
unfolded  by  Francois.  .  .  .  Message  of  the  Pres- 
ident of  the  Republic  to  the  French  nation.  .  .  . 
Appeal  of  the  Municipal  Council  to  the  people 
of  Paris.  ...  It  is  announced  that  the  support 
of  England  has  been  acquired  by  France,  "with- 
out arranging  exactly  the  nature  and  form  of  the 
probable  intervention.  .  .  ." 


282  To  Arms! 

"Well!"  said  Frangois,  smiling,  "Gustave 
Herve  has  asked  to  go  'in  spite  of  his  myopia  and 
his  forty-three  years !'  That  will  make  our  good 
neighbor  Lepoultre  reflect!" 

Just  then,  the  "good  neighbor"  passed  them; 
he  was  with  his  son-in-law,  Monsieur  Delmotte, 
who  exhibited  proudly  his  stripes  of  Second-Lieu- 
tenant of  engineers.  A  little  farther  away,  Da- 
vesnes  saw  Alexandre  Frechette,  carrying  a  canvas 
valise.  He  accompanied  his  little  friend  who 
bought  cakes  at  a  confectioner's  and  he  looked 
for  a  cab  in  vain.  Although  he  had  never  spoken 
to  Frangois  Davesnes,  he  bowed  cordially: 

"Good  luck,  Lieutenant !" 

Frangois  replied: 

"Good  luck!" 

And  other  mobilised  men  of  the  district  passed, 
whose  faces  were  familiar.  Abbe  Moriceau,  trans- 
formed into  a  sergeant,  was  with  his  mother  in 
an  old  cab  with  a  top  railing.  The  Alsatian  lock- 
smith conducted  his  workmen,  and  the  fifteen- 
year-old  apprentice  followed  behind,  very  proud 
to  carry  the  distended  bag  of  his  comrades.  Made- 


To  Arms!  283 

moiselle  Florence,  with  reddened  eyes,  hung  on 
the  arm  of  her  lover. 

Simone  could  not  take  her  eyes  away  from 
Frangois.  Pale  and  more  slender  in  his  uniform, 
he  was  truly  a  fine  officer  and  he  had  the  man- 
ner and  bearing  of  one  born  to  command.  In  the 
atmosphere  of  this  morning,  smelling  of  powder, 
Simone  was  elated  with  pride,  the  enthusiastic 
feeling  of  admiration  added  to  love.  The  one  she 
had  loved  and  chosen  was  a  real  man!  She  re- 
membered the  men  she  had  met  at  the  Raynauds', 
ornaments  of  salons,  politicians,  athletes,  men  of 
money  and  of  pleasure,  poor  puppets  who  would 
be  quickly  blown  down  by  the  wind  of  war! 
What  was  Frangois  Davesnes,  even  yesterday,  to 
these  persons'?  Neither  celebrated  nor  rich,  de- 
testing talkativeness  and  bragging,  what  did  he 

C>  \J\J  <J' 

represent  to  those  who  did  not  know  his  soul  and 
whom,  moreover,  he  avoided  with  a  quiet  and  cour- 
teous disdain?  Now,  in  the  test  where  all  of  his 
generation  gave  their  utmost,  he  was  precisely  the 
Frenchman  whom  France  in  peril  needed,  ener- 
getic and  modest,  mastering  the  tenderest  emotion 


284  To  Arms! 

of  his  heart  by  rigid  will  power,  profoundly  hu- 
man even  in  the  violence  of  the  strife,  scorning 
words,  knowing  how  to  face  all  reality  and  ready 
for  obscure  sacrifice.  Everywhere,  he  would  find 
and  keep  the  place  due  him:  in  the  greatest  dan- 
ger and  in  the  greatest  honor. 

After  having  walked  about  for  some  time,  Si- 
mone  and  Frangois  finally  discovered  an  automo- 
bile. The  chauffeur  agreed  to  drive  them  home, 
then  to  the  Lyons  station. 

"It  is  because  it  is  you,  Lieutenant.  To-day, 
there  are  no  longer  any  cabs  for  civilians." 

Marie  Pourat  had  come  in  the  absence  of  her 
employer.  When  she  saw  Francois,  she  began 
to  cry.  She  did  not  think  that  Monsieur  would 
go  so  soon !  That  Anthime  of  hers  would  not  go 
until  the  fifth  day.  How  empty  it  made  all  the 
houses,  this  departure  of  the  men !  And  she  asked 
insistently  if  Monsieur  believed  that  the  war 
would  last  a  long  time. 

"Several  months,  perhaps." 

"God  preserve  us!  ...  What  will  happen  to 
the  rest  of  us!  ...  To  be  sure,  there  will  be 


To  Arms!  285 

women  who  will  die  of  grief,  like  this  poor  woman 
Anselme.  .  .  ." 

Simone  exclaimed: 

"Madame  Anselme  is  dead!" 

"Yes,  Madame.  She  was  too  sensitive,  that 
strong  woman.  Night  before  last  she  had  an  at- 
tack of  vertigo,  and  her  son  begged  them  to  hide 
the  bad  news  from  her.  .  .  .  He  did  not  even 
tell  her  of  the  mobilisation.  She  suspected  some- 
thing. ...  It  is  difficult  to  deceive  a  mother! 
.  .  .  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  anything,  but  last 
night,  she  got  up  and  went  to  the  shop  for  a 
paper  .  .  .  and  suddenly  she  cried  out.  Her  son 
reached  her  only  in  time  to  take  her  in  his  arms, 
quite  rigid.  .  .  .  She  died  at  daybreak.  Mon- 
sieur Pierre  should  have  gone  this  morning!  He 
will  ask  a  respite  to  bury  his  poor  mother.  .  .  . 
It  is  terrible !" 

"Yes,"  said  Simone,  "it  is  terrible !" 

She  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  seen  death  face  to  face,  death,  about  to 
be  the  fearful  queen  of  the  world,  and  which, 
stealthily,  had  come  in  the  little  peaceful  street 


286  To  Arms! 

of   the    suburbs    to    seize    its    first    victim  .  .  . 

Marie  Pourat  mopped  her  eyes  with  the  corner 
of  her  apron.  She  ended : 

"There  are  plenty  of  mothers  who  would  be 
jealous  of  an  end  like  that,  in  such  times." 

Meanwhile,  Frangois  hurried  Simone.  Even 
arriving  at  eight  o'clock,  he  risked  not  having  any 
place  in  the  train. 

Once  more,  he  impressed  upon  his  vision  the 
blue  room,  the  grey  salon,  the  cherished  objects, 
and  pressing  his  wife  to  his  heart,  he  said  to  her : 

"Simone,  whatever  comes,  we  shall  have  known 
life  in  its  best  and  most  beautiful  form.  I  have 
been  happy  through  you,  among  all  men.  Tell 
me  that  you  have  been  happy !" 

"Ah!     Frangois!"  .  .  . 

The  moments  slipped  by.  He  led  her  away. 
Marie  had  already  taken  the  canteen  to  the  cab. 
She  handed  the  dressing-bag  to  Simone  and  the 
sword  in  its  grey  scabbard. 

"That  is  all.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Madame!  and 
good  luck,  Monsieur.  May  the  good  God  send 
you  back  soon,  after  beating  the  Prussians !" 


To  Arms!  287 

An  automobile  panted  in  the  court  of  the  house. 
Madame  Miton  came  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Da- 
vesnes  and  to  beg  the  chauffeur  to  hurry. 

"Monsieur  Melinier  is  going.  .  .  .  They  say 
that  he  will  take  a  general  with  him." 

She  sighed: 

"All  the  tenants  are  going!  There  will  be  no 
one  left  here  but  their  wives." 

The  taxicab  started  and  the  little  street  van- 
ished behind  Simone  and  Francois  Davesnes,  as  if 
it  had  fallen  into  the  past,  with  its  small  old 
houses,  its  new  dwellings,  and  the  fence  with  the 
advertisements,  the  chestnuts  overhanging  the 
garden  wall  and  the  clock-tower  where  the  doves 
cooed.  .  .  . 

The  sun  emerged  from  the  heavy  fogs.  When 
the  automobile  crossed  Austerlitz  Bridge,  the 
tower  of  Notre  Dame  and  the  quays  were  outlined 
between  the  blue  sky  and  the  silver  stream. 

"How  beautiful  Paris  is!"  said  Frangois.  "Dear 
Paris  .  .  .  with  what  affection  we  shall  defend 
her!" 

"You  believe,"  said  Simone,  eagerly,  "you  be- 


v  288  To  Arms! 

lieve  in  victory  *?  Do  you  think  that  we  who  were 
born  in  a  conquered  country,  shall  see  revenge, 
triumph,  a  new  France,  and  that  we  shall  not  sub- 
mit in  vain  to  the  martyrdom  of  this  day"?  You 
go  confidently?  .  .  .  You  are  certain,  say  that 
you  are  certain.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  sure  that  I  shall  do  my  whole  duty,  like 
the  others,  and  I  feel  a  great  hope,  if  not  a  cer- 
tainty. .  .  .  Germany  is  strong !  the  struggle  will 
be  long  and  hard.  .  .  .  Never  be  a  pessimist, 
whatever  happens,  my  dearest,  but  keep  your  il- 
lusions. .  .  .  Success  will  be  painfully  bought." 

"The  Russians  will  help  us.  ...  Perhaps  the 
English.  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps.  .  .  .  But  we  must  count  on  our- 
selves. ...  It  is  the  people  of  France  who  will 
save  France.  .  .  ." 

The  automobile  went  slower. 

An  immense  crowd  overflowed  the  Rue  de  Lyon 
where  the  subway  entrance  poured  out  a  torrent 
of  men  and  women.  Vehicles  of  all  sorts,  the 
most  antiquated  and  the  most  bizarre,  carried  the 
mobilised  men.  All  this  crowd,  barred  at  inter- 


To  Arms!  289 

vals  by  police  and  soldiers,  moved  with  one  im- 
pulse in  the  same  direction  towards  the  station. 
There  were  many  officers  of  all  grades  and  ages, 
lieutenants  of  the  territorials  with  grey  hair,  un- 
comfortable in  the  uniform  that  squeezed  their 
stomachs,  doctors  and  marines  bound  for  their 
ships  at  Toulon.  On  the  earth-works  families 
of  Italians,  Croatians  and  Bohemians  waited  for 
the  free  trains  reserved  for  foreigners  and  looked 
as  if  even  the  soil  were  bearing  filth  and  misery. 
There  were  couples  with  children  and  young  men 
with  old  mothers.  The  farewells  of  the  night  had 
reddened  their  eyes  and  lined  their  wan  faces. 
Almost  all  of  the  women  were  crying,  softly,  with 
an  air  of  asking  forgiveness.  .  .  .  "Good-bye, 
little  one !  .  .  .  May  the  good  God  protect  you ! 
.  .  .  — Adieu,  mamma!  — Good-bye,  wife  and 
child !  .  .  .  Don't  be  afraid.  We  shall  get  them. 
— Good-bye !  Write  to  us.  ...  Don't  take  cold 
at  night.  .  .  .  Don't  lose  your  money!  .  .  . 
Tender  and  familiar  nicknames  melted  in  a  kiss. 
.  .  .  But  the  scene  was  short  and  simple.  The 
soldier  passed  the  barrier;  the  mother,  the  wife  or 


290  To  Arms! 

the  sweetheart,  silent  and  staggering,  turned  back, 
and  the  people  stepped  aside  before  her. 

A  good-natured  man  took  Frangois's  canteen. 
Pushing  through  the  crowd,  with  difficulty,  he 
reached  the  baggage  room.  But  there  were  two 
lines  of  soldiers  with  imperative  orders.  "No 
women  inside  of  the  station,  except  travellers  pro- 
vided with  tickets."  Frangois  insisted  in  vain. 

"Very  well!  wait  for  me  outside,"  he  said  to 
Simone.  "I  shall  leave  the  small  packages  with 
you  and  go  to  register  my  baggage.  Watch  my 
troublesome  sword  and  my  bag.  ...  I  shall 
come  back.  We  can  say  good-bye  in  the  court, 
my  poor  darling!" 

She  obeyed  sadly,  standing  near  the  officer  of 
the  peace  who  guarded  the  passage.  The  soldiers 
looked  at  her  with  an  amiable  curiosity.  At  the 
end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Frangois  had  not  re- 
turned. The  military  Cerberus  observed  the 
young  woman.  Was  he  moved  by  the  distress  in 
her  eyes  ?  He  murmured : 

"The  Lieutenant  cannot  leave  without  his 
weapons?  That  would  not  be  possible.  ...  By 


To  Arms!  291 

that  time  .  .  .  you  can  enter  all  the  same.  ..." 
In  speaking,  he  moved  a  little  away  from  the 
door.  Simone  thanked  him  in  a  low  trembling 
voice,  then  slipped  through  the  propitious  open- 
ing, like  a  mouse.  At  last!  she  was  in  the  place, 
and  Frangois  returning,  saw  it. 

Half-past  eight.  They  had  still  several  min- 
utes. .  .  .  On  a  bench,  to  one  side,  they  sat  down 
unable  to  speak,  hand  in  hand,  and  they  suffered 
in  that  moment  more  than  they  had  ever  suffered. 

The  first  to  speak,  she  said: 

"Francois,  see  the  clock.  .  .  .  You  must 
go " 

"No.  ...  I  have  time.  .  .  ." 

"There  won't  be  any  more  room.  You  will  be 
very  uncomfortable.  ...  I  don't  want  anything 
to  happen  to  you.  .  .  .  And  then,  I  feel  that  this 
emotion  will  kill  us.  .  .  ." 

He  assented: 

"You  are  right." 

They  went  in  the  direction  of  the  quay.  There 
a  new  order  stopped  Simone. 

Then,  she  threw  herself  on  Frangois's  breast; 


292  To  Arms! 

she  clung  close  to  him,  her  fingers  clutching  his 
uniform,  as  her  hair  was  caught  on  its  buttons. 
A  mad  prayer  arose  from  the  depths  of  her  shat- 
tered being  to  the  unknown  Powers:  "Oh,  that 
he  may  live!  that  I  may  see  him  again!  ..." 
Feverishly,  Francois's  mouth  pressed  hers. 

She  cried : 

"Adieu!  .  .  .  Adieu!  .  .  ." 

And  she  tore  herself  from  him,  brutally.  She 
ran,  without  turning  back,  to  the  exit,  biting  her 
handkerchief,  her  soul  and  her  eyes  full  of  gloom, 
and  feeling  her  life  ebbing,  as  if  her  veins  had 
been  cut.  .  .  . 

She  recovered  herself  outside,  in  the  crowd 
...  It  was  over. 

He  had  gone.    She  was  alone.  .  .  . 

The  sun  shone  on  the  bayonets.  Below,  on  the 
top  of  the  column,  the  Genius  of  Liberty  looked 
like  a  flame  jn  the  sky,  and  the  mists,  driven  by 
the  wind,  whitened  the  blue,  like  a  far-away 
sweep  of  Victory.  .  .  . 

THE  END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


KK'li 


API 


APR 


91993 


